


Righteous

by mojo_da_jojo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fallen Castiel, Fun With Mythology, Gen, Genderbending - Reincarnation, M/M, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Reincarnation, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojo_da_jojo/pseuds/mojo_da_jojo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Naomi’s death and the angels’ Fall knocks something loose in Castiel – the memories of a thousand thousand times he laid eyes on the soul that would become Dean Winchester. He understands, now, why Naomi thought she had to fix him.</p><p>After all, Castiel has never done what he was told. Not completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue. (now)

It takes some time after the fires die out and the sky is still again for the shock to wear off, but when it does, Castiel registers the sensation of tears slipping down his vessel’s cheeks.

No, he thinks, that isn’t entirely correct. This body is no longer his vessel; it is _him_.

He has felt this way before, once or twice, when he had been cut off from Heaven and alone – achey, uncomfortable, tired, and ultimately _human_ – but never so suddenly, and never so unexpectedly. This time, he knows, there will be no recovery. His grace has been torn out, just like Anna’s, but hers at least still existed. His has been used up as a meaningless spell component, no more permanent than graveyard dirt or yarrow or diamond dust. 

A cry echoes from somewhere in the woods; Castiel moves automatically towards it, and finds the source to be one of his brethren, lying in a crumpled heap amidst the wreck of a young oak. The vessel is a young woman, dark-haired, but Castiel does not recognize it, nor the angel within. 

He cannot hear the song of her grace. He wonders if that is because it was torn from her, or because he now lacks the ability to truly hear.

He approaches her, thinking to help, until he sees the broken oak branch protruding from her belly and the blood seeping into the ground.

“Castiel,” she chokes, and he looks down at her, frozen. 

She dies. The imprint her wings leave is strewn across tree and ground alike. For a bizarre moment Castiel finds himself jealous of her; even in death she kept some remnant of her angelic form. He will have no such luxury. There is nothing left of what he once was.

He reaches for the corner of space where his sword used to lie and finds nothing; he cannot access the celestial dimension. His hand pats uselessly against the side of his coat – and finds something in his pocket.

He takes it out and stares at it blankly for a minute before realizing what it is. A cell phone. Dean had found it for him and taught him how to use it. The hunter’s number is the only one in the contacts list.

Castiel presses the tiny buttons with fingers that shake and cradles the phone awkwardly to the vessel’s – his – ear.

Dean answers after only one ring. “Cas?”

His voice is at once both comforting and painful; Castiel does not fully understand their relationship, and thinks perhaps that Dean doesn’t, either. There seems to always be conflict between them, and yet Castiel cannot imagine his existence without the elder Winchester. Perhaps, he muses, that is what Dean means when he calls him ‘family.’

“Cas, if you’re there answer me, dammit –“

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says.

Dean’s breath _whoosh_ es over the speaker of the phone. “What happened to you? Are you alright? Have you seen – what happened? Where are you? Did Metatron –“

“Dean,” Castiel says, cutting him off, “please, I don’t –“

“Yeah, okay, one thing at a time, where are you?”

Castiel looks around again, trying not to see the broken body of his sister. “I don’t know. A forest, somewhere. It’s warm. There are oak trees.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay. Look, just – just stay put, I’ll come – no, scratch that, can you walk? Did you – did you fall?”

“I can walk,” Castiel says, looking at his shoes. “I Fell, but… I can walk. I am unhurt.”

“Okay, just – listen, just… I don’t know, find something that can tell us where you are. Pick a direction and walk.”

“Dean,” Castiel says tiredly, “approximately eighty percent of North America is forest, and approximately thirty percent of that is in an area that would be warm at this time of year. Assuming I’m even in North America.”

“You got a better idea?” Dean demands. “Look, just do it, I’ll try and find you as soon as I can, but I got Sam to deal with and –“

“Of course,” Castiel says. “I would hate to come between you and your brother.” Perhaps he is being vindictive, but Castiel cannot find it in himself to care.

There is silence for a moment, and Castiel almost thinks Dean has hung up the phone, but then he says, “Don’t be like that, Cas, I’m trying to help you.”

Dean’s tone is far more forgiving than Castiel has ever heard it. He takes a deep breath. “I will call when I’ve found something that can help to pinpoint my location,” he says, and shuts the phone.

He starts walking.

Despite his doubts, Castiel does eventually come out of the woods near the intersection of two roads. His feet ache when they strike the hard pavement; he wonders how humans manage to function when their bodies are so fragile and protesting. The intersection is completely deserted. It must be very late, he thinks, or very early.

He calls Dean again. “The street sign says S-R two-six-seven,” he says. “I don’t know what that means.”

“State road,” Dean says.

“There is a cornfield,” Castiel says. “One street is S-R two-six-seven. The other one says C-R 1000.”

There is a sound on the other end that may be Dean typing. “You’re in Indiana,” he says. “I’m callin’ Garth. He might be able to find another hunter that can get there to pick you up before I can.”

“I don’t want to get picked up by another hunter, Dean,” Castiel says, aware that he sounds childish and stubborn. “My feet hurt and my nose is leaking clear fluid and my eyes itch and I just want to sleep for days. I don’t want to deal with another human. I want to deal with _you_.”

Silence follows. “Yeah, okay, Cas. I get that. Hang on just a sec.”

Muffled voices drift across the line. Castiel sits down by the edge of the road and waits.

“Cas?”

“I haven’t gone anywhere, Dean,” Castiel says.

“Shut up,” Dean says, but there’s no bite in it. “Kevin’s gonna watch Sam, so I’m coming to get you. It’s gonna take me a while, but I’m leavin’ now, so I should be there by late morning at least. Is there someplace you can wait, or sleep, or something?”

Castiel looks around. There is a building a ways down the road, with a sign advertising mulch. “I think so.”

“Good. Keep your ringer on. I’ll call you when I get close.” Dean walks Castiel through turning on the GPS in his phone, just in case, and then hangs up.

Castiel curls against the wall of the building – an old barn, it looks like – near a sleeping pile of barn cats, and tries to sleep. As tired as he feels, he thinks it should be easy, but his back starts to ache and his neck is stiff. He sheds his trenchcoat and balls it up beneath his head, trying to alleviate some of the strain; it helps a bit, and soon he falls into uncomfortable sleep.

He dreams. His dreams are fragmented, nothing more than flashes of sensation and color; an impression here, a feeling there. He sees faces, all different – red hair, black hair, female, male, almond eyes blue eyes round eyes black eyes. He hears voices, too; some at once familiar, some strange. _Crack in the chassis,_ says Naomi’s voice. _I fixed you._

His own voice is there, too, though it says things he doesn’t remember.

_I would recognize you anywhere._

He wakes to the buzz and melody of his cell phone ringing. 

“Dean,” he grumbles, voice rough with sleep. He coughs once. Everything in his body hurts.

“Hey,” comes the reply, and Dean sounds just as tired as Castiel is. “I’m pullin’ onto two-sixty-seven. Gonna be there in a minute. You somewhere I’ll be able to see you?”

“I will be,” Castiel says, standing. His joints pop. A cat scampers off, startled.

“Good. Be there in a sec.”

Castiel retrieves his trenchcoat and shakes it out, brushing dirt off the fabric. He’s not sure why, but he’s protective of this coat; it’s become almost a part of him. Dean kept it for him when Castiel had been killed by the Leviathan, so Castiel must not be the only one who assigns some sort of importance to it.

Before long he hears the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine, and before he can even move to get in the car Dean is parking it and getting out himself. “Cas,” he says, and the relief on his face is second only to what it was in Purgatory when Dean found him by the water. Just like then, Dean pulls him into a hug, but this time Castiel’s body hurts and he pulls away, grimacing.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“No,” Castiel grates. “I’m sore all over and I think I am experiencing an allergic reaction to the pollen in the air here.”

“Ain’t that a bitch,” Dean says, and Castiel wonders why it is Dean seems so at ease when there is so much wrong in the world. “You’re human?”

“Obviously,” Castiel says.

“Did you –“ Dean hesitates, and his smile slips. “Did you fall? Like the rest of them?”

Castiel doesn’t have to ask who ‘the rest of them’ are. “Not like you’re thinking,” he says. “I… Metatron took my grace to use in the spell. It’s gone. I didn’t fall, but I am Fallen.”

“Sucks,” Dean says. Castiel can’t help but agree. “At least you’re alright. Drove past more than a few angels – well, former angels I guess – not so lucky as you.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” Castiel says. “Can we go?”

“Yeah,” Dean tells him. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this is a Supernatural-based fanfic, I feel the need to say that this fic is heavily inspired by other works including but not limited to Bioshock Infinite, the Zero Escape series, and a few others that I'll point out as the story progresses. 
> 
> In addition, I'm tentatively planning for this fic to update Tuesdays. Tentatively.


	2. firstborn. (egypt, 1250 b.c.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was that day back in Egypt, not that long ago, when we slew every firstborn infant whose door wasn't splashed with lamb's blood. And that was just PR._
> 
> Castiel dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood and death of children.

The first half hour of the drive back to the Men of Letters’ bunker is spent catching each other up on the situation; after that Castiel falls asleep uncomfortably squashed against the cool glass of the passenger window. When Dean wakes him, announcing that they’ve arrived, there is an uncomfortable crick in Castiel’s neck.

He really does not like being human.

Kevin is there, as well as a red-haired female that Dean introduces as Charlie, who seems to already know Castiel from the prophet Chuck’s gospel. Sam is sleeping in his room and apparently has been for quite some time. Castiel isn’t surprised. Although he does not fully understand the damage Sam has done to himself, he knows that it is far too severe to simply dissipate with the failing of the third trial.

Castiel can’t even see Sam’s soul to determine whether the damage has lessened at all. For that matter, he can’t see Kevin’s, or Charlie’s, or even Dean’s, with which he should be so familiar.

In fact, he realizes with a jolt of something that must be panic, he cannot even remember what Dean and Sam’s souls look like.

Perhaps it is because the angelic sense that made such sight possible is completely gone; the human mind is not equipped to even imagine the essence of a soul, and so Castiel can no longer retain the information. All he could see of the dead angel in the forest, after all, was the afterimage of her wings superimposed on the ground, not her true form – another thing which only a very few humans can see without burning out their eyes.

He wonders if he has a soul now, instead of the grace that suffused his true – 

_Castiel cannot even remember his own true form._

If he concentrates, he can recall sensations – the brush-shimmer of radiant wings, the freedom of flight and the stretch of long limbs over oceans and deserts alike – but his new human mind cannot process them.

Through the fog of sudden panic he feels Dean shaking him, and his chest expands rapidly and painfully – he’d stopped breathing.

“Cas,” Dean barks, and Castiel thinks this must not be the first time. “Talk to me, man!”

Castiel forces his fear down with quite some difficulty. “I can’t remember, Dean,” he manages. “I can’t remember what I looked like.”

“So get him a mirror or something,” he hears Kevin say.

“That’s not what he means, dummy,” Charlie admonishes him.

Dean’s face is so much more difficult to read now that Castiel cannot see the soul behind his eyes. “I’m sorry, man,” he says gruffly. “I – I’m gonna fix this, I promise.”

Castiel blinks away the tears that have been spilling over his face. “You can’t, Dean,” he tells him, “there’s nothing left to fix – you can’t save everyone –“

“I can try,” Dean grumbles before Castiel can finish, and steers him towards the kitchen. “And I’ll tell you the way to start, too – food.” 

Once Castiel has been fed (burgers) and given new clothes (Dean’s; too long in the legs and too wide in the shoulders) he collapses into a bed (something Dean calls ‘memory foam,’) sleeps like a dead thing, and dreams.

He dreams that his sword is a mess of human blood, dark and ugly even in the radiance of his grace. If humans are such disgusting things when split open, Castiel can understand why Raphael and some of his other brothers find them so repulsive.

Still, standing over the remains of a human child, Castiel weeps.

“We don’t have time for this,” says Ithuriel. “Dawn approaches. There is too much work to be done.”

“Enough,” Anael says, and that is that.

Castiel drifts away from the child, as silent as when he entered, and past the sleeping mother who will wake in the morning to the darkest day of her life. “He must steel himself if we are to continue,” he hears Ithuriel say. 

“He is young,” Anael replies. “He does not have the experience we do.”

Outside, in the alley between homes, Azrael bows his head and carefully wipes the blood from his sword. His wings beat slowly and out of time with each other, all seven sets drooping. Castiel is not old enough to have earned his second pair, but Azrael is almost as ancient as their Father, on a level with Michael and Gabriel. His grace does not bleed the indifference that Ithuriel and Anael exude; he seems almost sorrowful.

Azrael notices Castiel’s gaze upon him. “It is not wrong to mourn,” he says.

“I would not have expected to hear that from the angel of death,” Castiel admits.

“These children are not of our Father,” Azrael says. “Their death is tragedy. A necessary tragedy, but a tragedy nonetheless.” He fixes Castiel with a many-faceted stare. “But do not forget, brother: we are the agents of this destruction, but we did not bring it. These people were warned. Our Father is nothing if not fair.”

“I know,” Castiel says.

“It gets no easier,” Azrael tells him. “Do not hesitate.”

Castiel’s wings straighten automatically with the order; he nods.

“Come,” Azrael says. “We have many homes to visit tonight.”

And so Castiel kills, and kills, and kills again, guided by Azrael and Anael, watching the brightly colored souls of his victims fade and sink into the infernal plane. By the time only half the city has been purged, the warm dry air of the desert stinks of blood and decay, and blood mars the beauty of his brethren’s forms. 

Azrael is right; the killing gets no easier, though Castiel grits his teeth and remains silent. These, he reminds himself, are the people who imprisoned his Father’s favored children, and this is their punishment.

He cannot help but think that the children bear no blame, but this is his Father’s word. An angel obeys, and does not question.

As the eastern sky fades grey with impending dawn, Castiel finds himself ahead of his brothers and sisters, determined to get through his list as quickly and efficiently as possible before he loses his resolve. The last home he is to visit lies outside the city proper, in a cluster of tiny houses surrounding an even tinier oasis. He can sense even before he enters the souls of the five occupants. Two are timeworn and multifaceted – a mother and father – while two are vibrant and hum with the energy of youth.

One, however, is just beginning to take on the strong timbre of adulthood, though still young, even in human terms – and by angel standards, practically still in the larval stage.

_Firstborn,_ Castiel thinks, and flows over the threshold.

The house is heavy with sleep, but soon its inhabitants will rise; he must be quick. Sword drawn, he hovers over the bed of the eldest son –

And the boy opens his eyes.

For a split second human and angel stare at each other in shock, and then the boy flings himself between Castiel and the two other children. 

It is only then that Castiel realizes that the child can _see_ him – really, truly see him, without consequence.

Castiel jerks backwards, shocked, and the child regards him with deep brown eyes. The soul behind his skin smells of earth and river stones and starmetal and sings of wisdom beyond his years; it is the color of both the brightest corner of heaven and the deepest crevice of the abyss. 

It is the most astonishing thing Castiel has ever seen and he knows, in that instant, that he cannot kill this boy – this boy who can look upon an undisguised angel without cost, whose soul is too bright to be mortal and too dark to be divine, who still stands between Castiel and his siblings in instinctive protection without a thought for himself.

Castiel can sense his brethren approaching and moves before he has even consciously made the decision. He seizes a lamb from the flock over the hill and slices its neck without a second thought, smearing its blood across the entrance to the house as the boy looks on in confusion and wonder.

“Isis,” the boy says in awe.

Castiel does not bother to correct him; there isn’t time. “Stay in your home until sunrise,” he says, and the very fact that the boy can hear him is a miracle. “Keep your family inside, and never speak of this night.”

The boy nods solemnly, and Castiel is gone before anyone else – human or angel – is any the wiser.

Castiel wakes fuzzy-headed and disoriented, trying to keep the dream from slipping away. He may be new to dreaming, but he never expected one to feel so real.

“Dean,” he asks at breakfast, “do humans ever dream things that are true?”

“I wish,” mumbles Charlie around a mouthful of pancake. “Zombie dreams are the best.”

“What, like clairvoyance? Dreams coming true and stuff?” Dean asks. “I always figured that stuff was bogus, but hey, prophets are a thing, so…”

“But things that have already happened?” Castiel clarifies.

Dean shrugs. “Sure. Memories pop up all the time in dreams. At least, in mine they do.”

“I’m not sure this was a memory,” Castiel says. “I don’t remember it happening, but it seemed so real…”

“Well they say that the only people you can see in dreams are people you’ve met in real life,” Kevin tells him. “The human brain can’t manufacture faces, just pull from what it already knows.”

“What’d’ya dream about?” Charlie asks.

“Egypt,” Castiel says. “And the slaughter of the firstborn.”

“Whoa, like the plagues?” Kevin asks. “That actually happened?”

“Of course it did,” Castiel says gruffly. “I was there. I remember it. But I don’t remember it like it was in the dream.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dean says. “Sam has all kinds of memories that I’m pretty sure he just dreamed. Like riding donkeys in the Grand Canyon. Pretty sure that never happened but he says it did.” He frowns. “Then again, he was trial-stoned out of his head, so…”

“I have this recurring dream where I’m stuck in a church and there’s this ghost that’s trapped there and if you’re still in the church at midnight you have to take its place,” Charlie says, and Castiel stops listening.

The strange thing is, he _does_ remember Egypt, with what he thought was perfect clarity until today. He remembers when Azrael was still the head of his garrison, before he Fell and Ithuriel was killed and Anael was promoted. He remembers the blood on his sword and the stink of dead children and the sorrow of souls lost to the Pit.

If he concentrates, he can remember the tiny oasis and the homes surrounding it – but after that, nothing except for his recent dream. 

It is, he considers, a bit like someone reciting words at him that he doesn’t remember saying – they sound like his words, and they fit in context, but he doesn’t actually recall them leaving his mouth.

Why, then, did the boy feel so familiar?


	3. body and soul, part one. (athens, 430 b.c.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Angel inside of you, it's kinda like being chained to a comet._
> 
>  
> 
> Sam is not getting better.

Charlie is teaching Castiel to play something called an ex-box when Kevin’s voice echoes through the bunker.

“Help!”

Charlie is on her feet and running toward Sam’s room before Castiel can even extract himself from the couch; by the time he catches up Kevin is already on the phone with Dean, who is on a supply run.

“I didn’t do anything, he just started seizing up!” Kevin shouts into the phone, and Castiel pushes past him to get a good look at Sam.

The younger Winchester is thrashing on the bed, evidently unconscious but wreaking havoc on the surroundings; Charlie is attempting to keep him still. “Don’t,” Castiel barks, “don’t restrain him – just – don’t let him hurt himself –“

 _Seizure,_ Castiel’s brain provides unhelpfully. _Tonic-clonic._

He rolls Sam carefully onto his side and takes an elbow to the face for his efforts; disoriented, he stumbles backwards and falls. “Just get here!” Kevin yells at Dean, slams the phone shut, and immediately sets about rescuing anything breakable from the area; Charlie is dragging the nightstand and other furniture away from Sam’s bed.

As Castiel climbs to his feet, he is struck for a moment by a sort of familiarity. _Déjà vu,_ Dean would call it. He shakes the feeling away.

Sam’s lips are blue and his teeth are clacking; his eyes have rolled back in his head. Heat radiates from his body. Castiel shoves an extra pillow between Sam’s head and the headboard, and then, very suddenly, Sam goes horribly still.

“Oh my God,” Charlie whispers. “Is he –“

Sam gasps and begins drawing in hoarse, uneven breaths, and Castiel feels a bit of the tension dissipate. Sam’s eyes flutter open.

“Sam,” Castiel says gently, sitting on the bed next to him. “Can you hear me?”

Sam blinks several times and nods gingerly, eyes unfocused. His mouth is bloody but color is beginning to return to his face; Castiel wipes the blood away with the corner of a blanket. “Do you know where you are?”

Sam groans, hands coming up to his face, but doesn’t answer. “Sam,” Charlie says. “Did you hear Castiel?”

“What happened?” Sam manages.

“You’ve had a seizure,” Castiel says.

“Dean,” Sam says.

“He’ll be here soon,” Kevin says. “He’s on his way.”

Sam nods and promptly falls asleep, breathing still hoarse and unsteady.

“Is he gonna be alright?” Charlie asks.

“For now, probably,” Castiel says. “In the long-term? Who knows?”

“He’s supposed to be getting better,” Kevin says. “He stopped the trials. It’s over.”

“His body doesn’t know that,” Castiel says. “It was never going to be that easy. There’s something fundamentally wrong with Sam and it’s not going to just get better – I couldn’t fix it then, I can’t –“

He can’t even stop Sam having a seizure. Not anymore.

Dean gets back before Sam wakes up, and pushes past Charlie and Kevin to where Castiel is still sitting on the bed next to Sam. “What happened?” he demands.

“Sam had a seizure,” Castiel says. “I believe your doctors would classify it as a tonic-clonic seizure, most common in patients with epilepsy.”

“Sam’s not epileptic,” Dean says.

“No,” Castiel says patiently, “but then, we don’t know exactly what it is that’s wrong with him, do we?”

There’s a pause, and Charlie clears her throat. “Well,” she says awkwardly. “Let’s leave Mom and Dad to deal with this now that everything’s calmed down, right Mister AP?”

“Please tell me Dean’s ‘Dad,’” Kevin says as Charlie drags him out. Castiel can’t hear Charlie’s reply.

When it’s only Castiel, Dean, and an unconscious Sam left in the room, Dean lets himself drop into a chair, face in his hands. “I thought he was gonna get better.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” Castiel says.

“He’s gonna be all right though, right?” Dean says. “I mean, he can’t just…”

“He’ll be fine for now,” Castiel says. “Someone should stay with him at all times from now on, especially if seizures are going to be a recurring problem.”

“Friggin seizures,” Dean says, as if he can’t even believe it. 

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, moving towards him. “If Sam –“

“Don’t say it,” Dean warns.

“I think you should consider –“

“Enough,” Dean barks, standing abruptly. “He’s not gonna die, Cas. He’s just not. We have been through too goddamn much for him to up and die now.”

Castiel nods. “Of course,” he says. “You Winchesters are notoriously stubborn, after all.”

There is an uncomfortable silence, and Dean gestures at Castiel. “That’s one hell of a scrape,” he says. “Sammy do that to you?”

Castiel lifts his hand unconsciously to the left side of his face, but Dean beats him there; the skin has split over his cheekbone, and Dean’s fingers come away bloody. “Gonna want to get that washed up,” Dean says roughly.

Castiel is immediately aware, in a way he has never been before, of their proximity; Dean had called it ‘personal space,’ once, but Castiel had never felt it until now. He steps away. “Of course,” he says, and Dean’s hand falls back to his side. “I am a fragile human now, after all.”

Castiel offers to watch Sam overnight; he sleeps so lightly that if Sam has another seizure it will undoubtedly wake him up. Dean drags an extra mattress in for him, and Castiel curls up catlike nested in blankets. Idly he tries to place the feeling of familiarity he felt during Sam’s seizure, but before he can, he falls asleep, and with sleep come the dreams.

“Come on, brother,” Gabriel says. “When was the last time you got some R&R?”

Castiel’s wings flutter stiffly. If he is to earn a second pair any time soon, he doesn’t have time to waste on his brother’s so-called ‘R&R.’ “I have no interest –“

“In relaxation, yeah, yeah, I know,” Gabriel interrupts him. “You only say that because you don’t actually know what it is. I mean, have you ever actually been _on_ Earth –“

“Of course I have –“ 

“I mean _not_ for a mission?” Gabriel finishes. “You know, vessels are actually _fun,_ Cassie, actual human senses and feelings and everything! _Food,_ Castiel! Parties! Sex! Mind-altering hallucinogens!”

“If you enjoy it so much,” Castiel says, “then go without me.”

“It’s no fun alone, little bro,” Gabriel complains. “All I ask is one day. _One day._ Then I’ll never bug you about it again!”

“Yes, you will,” Castiel informs him.

“Well, not for a century at least! Come on!”

Castiel knows he’ll never hear the end of it unless he gives in –

which is how he finds himself in search of a vessel for the first time in his long existence.

He knows, objectively, that a bloodline of vessels has been molded for him since Creation through his Father’s design, but knowing that and actually _feeling_ its pull are two completely different things.

Castiel follows the pull to its source, a human male near the middle of his life, living among countless other humans on a peninsula of land surrounded by what the humans call the Aegean Sea. The man’s soul sings a tune in counterpoint to the melody of Castiel’s own grace. “That’s how you know he’s one of yours,” Gabriel says, already ingrained in his own vessel. “Athens,” he continues. “Not a bad choice. Bit nerdy, but I suppose that’s to be expected from you."

Castiel ignores him; the sooner he gets this over with, the sooner Gabriel will leave him alone. He reaches out to tug on the metaphysical tendrils he can feel stretching between his grace and the human soul below. 

The answering plea is instantaneous and overwhelming. _Please,_ cries the man, _please, yes, save us, use me, help us –_

“Greeks,” says Gabriel, shaking his head. “Totally obsessed with their gods. Hey, it’s useful for us, but seriously, have you ever met an Olympian? Total douchnozzles. I mean, did you see what Zeus did to that poor Atlas kid? Well, I guess he wasn’t really a kid, technically –“

“Gabriel,” Castiel grumbles. “Be quiet.” He flings himself down the link between himself and the man –

and is immediately awash in an assault of sensation. His grace writhes within its new confines as the soul struggles to make room for him; the body – his vessel – registers pain as it falls to the ground.

“Graceful,” Gabriel comments, and Castiel _hears_ it – not just through the inherent link he and Gabriel share as brothers, but with human ears registering sound and vibration, tiny hairs in his eardrum twitching in response to sound waves traveling through the air, processed into words and meanings by electric currents in his vessel’s brain. The vessel’s limbs spasm violently in response – reflexive muscle twitches caused by overstimulation in the auditory cortex –

“Easy,” Gabriel says. “You’ll get used to it.”

The onslaught of sensation lessens as Castiel grows accustomed to the body; he opens its (his?) eyes. Gabriel leans over him in his own vessel, human soul a barely noticeable shimmer behind the radiant bursts of Gabriel’s contained grace. 

Castiel sits up, tentatively wiggling his new fingers and toes. “Well,” he says, testing his vocal cords. His voice comes out gravelly and rough. “That wasn’t so hard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness. I am so, so sorry about the (incredibly, ridiculously) long delay. WHERE DOES THE TIME GO?!
> 
> In other news, part two of this chapter will be up hopefully sometime this weekend. In the original plan Athens was supposed to be all one chapter, but hey, sometimes plot bunnies happen and you end up with Sam seizures instead of the chapter you planned... and for some reason I have a hard time posting chapters any longer than 1600 words or so... (I blame NaNoWriMo. I mean really.)
> 
> And again, sorry about the delay!


	4. body and soul, part two. (athens, 430 b.c.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The human soul gives off a certain perfume._
> 
> Castiel sees something he recognizes.
> 
> Warnings: most likely butchered ancient Greek culture.

“What now?” Castiel asks.

Gabriel grins, producing a fig from his vessel’s pocket and popping it whole into his mouth. “Now,” he mumbles around his mouthful, “we hit the town. Greeks aren’t much for fine dining, but there’s still good stuff here. What are you into? Music? Art? Women? Or men, I guess, Greeks don’t care either way. Man, they’ve got the free love thing down a couple thousand years ahead of schedule. Makes you wonder.”

Together the two of them step out of Castiel’s vessel’s home, and Castiel is immediately overloaded once more with sensory input. His vessel registers nothing out of the ordinary for its existence – sunlight, the smell of crowds, the ocean-scented breeze – but his angelic grace can perceive the hundreds of human souls in the surrounding areas, each blazing with its own unique multitude of colors and singing its own song. Castiel freezes in place, struggling to process it all.

“Just think,” Gabriel says, “this is a fairly small city in the grand scheme of things. I mean, yeah, Athens is big for its time period, but wait till you see 30th century Beijing, bro.”

Castiel’s gaze travels the crowd until he spots a disturbance upon the steps of what appears to be a large temple. Two humans – male, Castiel thinks, though it takes him a moment to determine – are arguing, though it appears to be mostly one-sided; Castiel can feel the dissonant waves of anger produced by the younger man’s soul even from several buildings away.

Gabriel follows his line of sight to the temple and claps him on the back. “Vestal virgins!” he exclaims. “Good choice!”

Castiel tilts his head, peering at the altercation ahead. One man stands higher on the steps – a priest, perhaps. His soul carries the sun-yellow hope-green tendril of faith and devotion common in the very religious. Castiel has been trained to recognize the soul-song of the faithful, though he doubts this one is one of Israel’s children, especially given the pagan statues decorating the temple behind him.

It is the other man, the angry one, that catches Castiel’s eye.

His soul stands out from those around him; it is somehow at once brighter and darker than the rest, more complex than any others. It brings to mind the rich earthen colors of strength and steadfastness – moss-pine protective love and stone-steel determination – but at its core is a tiny wisp of shifting gold, almost entirely masked by the rest of the soul. Castiel has seen this before. He knows it.

“I know that soul,” he says.

Gabriel snorts. “No you don’t,” he replies, “this is your first time in a vessel, let alone in this century –“

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, more firmly. “I know that soul. I’ve seen it before. In Egypt.”

Gabriel falls silent; he knows Castiel still carries guilt over his actions against the firstborn of Egypt, even if his actions were taken under orders. Azrael himself had Fallen out of regret. It’s not a topic angels discuss lightly.

Before Gabriel can come up with something to say, Castiel is off and moving among the crowd towards the temple steps.

“-have enough on our hands tending to the wounded, Theron,” the priest is saying. “We are simply trying to protect our city-“

“By abandoning people who have served your gods for their entire lifetimes?” the angry man – Theron – responds incredulously. “What, because they’re not soldiers, they’re not worth saving?”

“Of course they are worth saving,” the priest responds. “But there is only so much we can do, and we cannot risk the plague spreading through the temples –“

“What plague?” Castiel asks.

Both men turn and stare at him.

“What do you mean ‘what plague,’” Theron growls, “are you blind?”

Castiel blinks the eyes of his vessel, and finds them fully functional. “This vessel’s ocular capabilities –“

“Heeeeeey, little brother!” Gabriel interrupts, finally catching up and cutting Castiel off. “Been looking for you. Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, I’ll just be taking my brother off your hands now.” He tugs at Castiel’s vessel’s shirt.

Before Gabriel can guide him away, though, the priest catches Castiel’s vessel by the arm. “Niketas,” he says, frowning, “I was unaware you had a brother. Are you all right?”

Castiel blinks at him. “I have many brothers and sisters,” he says.

“I’ve known you your entire life, Niketas –“

Castiel interrupts him. “My name is Castiel,” he says, “and I am using this man you call Niketas as a vessel during my time here on your planet.”

“Oh, hell,” Gabriel mutters.

Both the priest and Theron are looking at Castiel peculiarly, but he continues nonetheless. “I am an angel of the Lord,” he says.

“What lord?” the priest asks. “One of the Assembly? Niketas, are you certain –“

“I am an angel of the Lord,” Castiel repeats, “and I would like to know more about your plague so I might help you.”

“The plague,” the priest murmurs. “Gods, the dream-fever – Niketas, you are not well.” He backs away and flees into his temple.

“I do not understand,” Castiel says quietly.

Gabriel groans. “Of all the friggin’ angels to take on vacation,” he mutters to himself.

The man called Theron has not fled, but is still regarding Castiel with an expression the angel cannot read. The waves of anger seeping from his soul are fading, replaced with confusion and curiosity. “Help us how?” he asks.

“If there truly is a plague,” Castiel says, “I can help you as I did in Egypt.”

Theron frowns. “Where?”

“In Egypt,” Castiel says. “I am not surprised you do not recognize me. My true form is masked here. You called me Isis.”

“Um, bro?” Gabriel pipes up. “Can I talk to you?”

Castiel allows Gabriel to pull him away from the human before hissing, “Are you nuts?”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says.

Gabriel heaves an overdramatic sigh. “All right,” he says. “Look, you clearly know nothing about humans. But there is no way this guy is someone you could have met in Egypt. It’s been thousands of years since then for the humans. They don’t live that long.”

“I know what I saw,” Castiel argues. “Look at his soul, Gabriel. It’s different from the others. I’m telling you, I have seen it before. I recognize it.”

Gabriel peers at Theron for a moment. “Okay, he’s got more shiny than most humans, I’ll give you that –“

“Look into my memories,” Castiel insists. “I am not mistaken.”

Gabriel looks for a moment like he’s going to argue, but slips into Castiel’s memory nonetheless, examining the recollections of Egypt with something akin to distaste, until he sees what it is Castiel had seen.

“He looked at you,” Gabriel says. “Huh.”

“It’s the same soul,” Castiel tells him.

Gabriel’s vessels eyebrows draw together; human faces are certainly expressive, Castiel thinks. “You disobeyed.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel hisses. “The soul.”

“I know, I know,” the archangel replies, “but that shouldn’t be possible – his soul should be in hell with the rest of the nonbelievers – or heaven, I suppose, he could have converted – this doesn’t make sense, bro.”

Gabriel looks up. “I need to check something,” he says. “You stay here – try not to attract any attention, okay, and don’t lose sight of that human.”

And with that, he vanishes.

Theron, who has been watching both angels from a respectful distance, recoils and staggers back. Castiel regards him curiously. “Is something amiss?”

“You –“ Theron begins, and shakes his head. “You really aren’t human, are you?”

“No,” Castiel says.

“You came from the gods?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Castiel says.

Theron’s hands tremble. “Please,” he says. “If you are of the gods – you have to help us. The plague – my wife has it. She’s going to die.”

Castiel nods. “Take me to her.”


	5. body and soul, part three. (athens, 430 b.c.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All I'm saying is, it's how you look at it. Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt it takes to bury them. You get to change things. Save people. Maybe even the world._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> A long, long time ago, Castiel taught Dean to hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: violence, butchered Greek culture? maybe?

Athens is dying.

Castiel has been among the garrison of angels tasked with watching over the earth since the dawn of its creation. He watched the Neanderthals die out; he has witnessed firsthand the extinction of entire civilizations that seem to last no longer than the blink of an eye to his angelic longevity. He knows the soul of a city, a civilization, an empire, and how it reflects the souls of those it encompasses. And he knows when that soul is doomed.

But Athens is not supposed to die now. 

Something is profoundly wrong in this pinnacle of Greek culture; Castiel smells it in the reek of plague-ridden bodies, hears it in the wails of bereaved mothers. The city itself is infected, and the closer Castiel and Theron get to Theron’s home and Theron’s wife, the more troubled Castiel becomes.

“Here,” says Theron as they round a narrow street-corner and approach a low door marked with a hasty red ‘X’ to denote plague. Castiel pushes it open and steps through without a second thought.

The inside of Theron’s home smells of sickness and despair. Castiel sees the soul of Theron’s wife before he properly registers her body, laid out over a narrow cot. Even clouded over with black pain and bile-sickness, her soul sings in fiery colors of strength, love and courage. It is a perfect compliment to the earthen tones of Theron’s own soul. _Soulmates_ , Castiel thinks, and wonders.

“Charis,” Theron whispers, and kneels at his wife’s side. Her olive skin is clammy and pale; clumps of her dark hair are sweat-stuck to her face. Her body turns minutely towards Theron at the sound of his voice, but her eyes do not open. Theron pushes her hair away from her face and presses a kiss to her forehead before turning towards Castiel. “Please,” he begs. “Can you help her?”

Castiel stretches out his vessels hand and lays two fingers on Charis’ forehead, cleansing the illness from her blood. With no more than a thought, he restores strength to her muscles, energy to her cells. Theron looks on in awe as the color returns to his wife’s cheeks.

But Charis does not wake when Castiel removes his vessel’s hand.

“Is that it?” Theron asks. “Will she recover?”

Castiel feels the brows of his vessel knit together, although he did not intend them to. Human involuntary reactions are strange, he thinks. “She should have woken,” he says. “Perhaps the plague is affecting her soul as well.” He reaches out a hand before hesitating. “I can examine her soul, but I will need to touch it,” he tells Theron. “It will hurt.”

“Will it save her?” Theron asks.

“It may,” Castiel replies.

“Then do it,” Theron says firmly. “She can hate me later.”

Castiel plunges his hand into Charis’ chest, reaching out within the celestial plane to touch her soul with tendrils of his own grace. Charis’ body contracts, back arching and mouth opening in a wordless keen of pain; Theron flinches but does not move to stop Castiel.

As his grace comes into contact with Charis’ soul, Castiel can immediately sense the source of her malady. A wisp of negative energy has wrapped itself around her soul; Castiel latches onto it and pulls, forcing it to relinquish its hold.

Charis shudders as the plague-wisp leaves her body, and Castiel traps it with metaphysical bonds. Charis makes a noise within her throat and her eyes flutter open, warm hazel seeking out the face of her husband.

“Theron,” she says weakly.

“Charis. _Melima_ ,” Theron says, relief palpable in his voice. 

Castiel examines the wisp in his hand, no bigger than a chicken’s egg and thrashing wildly against the invisible prison Castiel has created for it. It radiates an energy neither demonic nor angelic, as far as Castiel can tell, but it is certainly nothing of human creation. He can feel it straining in a particular direction, as if trying to return to its source. Perhaps he could follow it to whatever created it. He makes for the exit of Theron’s home.

“Wait,” Theron croaks, tearing himself away from his wife’s side. “Where are you going?”

Castiel shows him the wisp. “This was causing your wife’s illness,” he says. “There are undoubtedly countless more, in every victim of this plague. I cannot possibly cleanse them all. If I free it, it should lead me to its source.”

“What _is_ its source?” Theron asks.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “Something powerful. Something that wants Athens to suffer.”

“And you’re going alone?”

“Gabriel has not returned,” Castiel says.

“Then let me go with you,” Theron says, then looks guiltily at his wife.

“Go,” says Charis, waving at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Theron straightens and reaches for a sword mounted on the wall. “This plague is destroying the city, and I haven’t done a thing to stop it. It attacked the only thing I care about in this world,” he continues, glancing at Charis, “and I was powerless. And then you turn up from nowhere, and heal her though she means nothing to you. The least I can do is help you now.”

Privately, Castiel thinks there is very little one human could do to assist an angel of his power, but he is intrigued by this soul that defies the natural order of things. “As you wish,” he says, and releases the plague-wisp; it takes off through the celestial plane, leaving a trail that Castiel can follow with ease. He reaches out to touch Theron, and flies.

The plague-wisp leads them to a temple within the acropolis of the city; Castiel lands upon the steps and Theron staggers, recoiling. “What was that?” he demands. “What did you do?”

“I flew,” Castiel says, puzzled. “How did you think we would follow the wisp?”

“Walking, perhaps,” Theron says, and turns away before vomiting into a nearby bush.

Castiel’s vessel’s nose wrinkles at the smell. “Unpleasant,” he says. 

“Just warn me next time,” Theron tells him, wiping his mouth. He looks up at the building before them. “The Temple of Apollo? This is where the plague is coming from?”

“Apparently,” Castiel says.

Theron shakes his head vigorously. “That shouldn’t be possible. Apollo gives us health, and medicine. He wouldn’t do this.”

Castiel stretches out his angelic senses and reaches within the temple, observing. The bitter tang of demonic energy permeates the building. “It may be that he didn’t have a choice,” he says darkly. “There are six demons within. They will attempt to stop us. Are you ready?”

Theron tightens his grip upon the short sword he carries and nods grimly. “After you.”

Castiel frowns. “That won’t stop them,” he says, and reaches for the pocket of extradimensional space where he keeps his own sword. It falls easily into his hand, and he flips it over to offer it to Theron hilt-first. “Use this. And if you’re going to strike, strike true. They will not allow you a second opportunity.”

Theron takes the sword in place of his own, eying its silver metal dubiously. “It’s rather small,” he says.

“It is older than your earth,” Castiel says, affronted. “And it is stronger than anything you will see again in your lifetime. Its size is irrelevant.”

“It’s not the size, it’s how you use it, got it,” Theron says, snickering at something Castiel does not understand. Ignoring the strange human, Castiel strides through the temple doors and takes the first demon by surprise, burning it out of its human shell before its fellow can even react.

The next demon he is lucky enough to catch as it gapes at him, apparently unused to encountering angels. Two more charge him as he smites it, and he catches them each in a hand and pours grace into their blackened souls.

As the two bodies _thump_ to the ground, Castiel turns in time to witness Theron plunging his blade through the fifth demon’s throat. The sixth apparently decides to live another day, and smoke pours out of its vessel’s throat. The body falls lifelessly to the ground. “Well done,” Castiel says, then remembers himself. “For a human,” he tacks on for good measure.

Theron is still staring, shocked, at the empty vessel, quite dead. “That was –“

“A demon,” Castiel says. “Without a vessel, that is the form they take outside of hell. Their true forms are far more grotesque.”

“Wonderful,” Theron replies. “Will it be back?”

“Doubtful,” Castiel says, and casts his eyes about the room; he spots the plague-wisp bobbing lazily in the air above a small shrine in the corner. Blood spatters the altar; a corpse dressed in priestly robes lies in an ungainly pile on the floor, throat cut.

“A shrine to Asclepius,” Theron says. “It’s been desecrated. Does that mean the plague is his doing?”

“These pagan gods are always so concerned with appearances,” Castiel sighs. “Rituals, offerings, sacrifices. It’s exhausting.” Castiel reaches out with his grace and cleanses the blood from the altar, purifying the demonic taint and allowing the shrine’s natural divine energy to replenish itself. “There. That should appease him.”

“That was easy,” Theron remarks.

“Only because I was here,” Castiel says. “For a human to cleanse this shrine alone would be nearly impossible. The demons would have been counting on that.”

“Why would they do this?” Theron asks.

“They’re demons,” Castiel says. “It’s what they do. I should report this to my commanders.”

“You have commanders?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. “I’m a soldier, after all. And I –“

“I’m back, bitches,” calls a boisterous voice, and Castiel sighs as Gabriel waltzes into the temple. “Didja miss me?” He takes in the corpses littering the temple. “Apparently not. Look at you, getting stuff done and all that. All work and no play. You’re supposed to be on vacation, little brother.”

Castiel suppresses the urge to groan. “Gabriel,” he says. “There were demons here. I assume they were under some sort of orders.”

“I know,” Gabriel says. “It’s happening all over the place. Looks like it’s going to be war soon. Which means you, soldier, have to report back to Anael. She’s readying her garrison for an attack.”

Castiel nods, turning to Theron. “I’ll need my sword back, then,” he says.

Theron blinks at him. “That’s it? You show up, you save my wife, you save the city, and you just – fly off? Just like that?”

“Is there something else I should be doing?” Castiel asks pointedly. “I have duties.”

“You could at least – I don’t know,” Theron says. “Stay for dinner? Let Charis and I thank you properly?”

“Married,” Castiel hears Gabriel mutter. “Go figure.”

“I can’t,” Castiel says. “I must return to heaven. And I should not take this vessel with me. His name is – Niketas, I believe. Will you ensure that he gets home safely?”

“I – sure,” Theron says. “I guess. Will – will I see you again?”

“Awwww,” Gabriel says.

“It’s unlikely,” Castiel says.

Theron takes a breath, and hands Castiel back his sword. “Alright, then. Things to do, people to see. I get it. Thanks anyway.”

“Come on, bro,” Gabriel says. “I’ve got a lot to catch you up on.”

Castiel nods, and spares Theron one more glance before detaching his grace from his vessel’s soul, reaching upwards for the heavens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so, so many apologies for the long delay. I'm picking up this story again, hallelujah! The tags have changed minutely to reflect the new AU-post-season-8 nature. Thanks for sticking with me this long!


	6. interlude i. (now.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We're family. We need you. I need you._
> 
>  
> 
> Dean stress-cooks, and Charlie has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: alcohol use

Castiel wakes to the smell of percolating coffee and frying bacon.

He rubs his eyes, disoriented; the sensation of dreaming is not yet something he is accustomed to, and these memory-dreams are even stranger. He does not remember ever having been in Athens, much less ridding it of a plague from a slighted pagan god. 

And yet, Naomi had once told him that she had altered his memory before. Had her death shaken something loose in Castiel’s memory? Was that why he was now remembering things he could not before?

He rises from the mattress Dean had dragged in for him. Sam is still asleep, with no evidence of any additional seizures; he seems to be fine, but Castiel still isn’t sure how exactly to diagnose a human with his own newly-human senses.

He pulls on a shirt Dean had left for him, bearing a misspelled logo for a deaf leopard. Knowing Dean, the logo is misspelled on purpose. Castiel resolves not to ask him.

Charlie and Kevin are seated at the long table in the library, casting occasionally looks at the kitchen entry. “Morning,” Charlie offers. “Nice bedhead. I see what Chuck was getting at about the sex hair.”

Castiel frowns and touches his hair absently, wandering toward the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” Kevin said. “It’s a war zone.”

“Dean is stress-cooking,” adds Charlie.

“Stress-cooking?” Castiel asks.

She nods. “Life’s out of control, brother’s sick, he doesn’t know what to do, so he’s making food. It’s a neurosis thing. Best to let him do his thing.”

Castiel goes into the kitchen anyway. Kevin’s ‘war zone’ comment is certainly deserved; Bisquick and egg shells litter the floor, and there are grease splatters all over the wall behind the stove. The counter is completely obscured by three enormous platters of pancakes, an overflowing stack of bacon, and the largest bowl of hash browns Castiel has ever seen. Dean is whisking eggs in another giant bowl with a fervor Castiel has only seen reserved for killing vampires in the past.

“Do you need any help?” Castiel asks, pouring himself a mug of coffee.

“I’m fine,” Dean grunts.

“You know what fine stands for?” Charlie calls from the table. “Fucked-up, insecure-“

“Shut up,” Dean yells, dumping the contents of his bowl onto the skillet, which hisses menacingly.

Castiel sips his coffee. “Dean –“

“Take those pancakes out to the table, and get off my case,” Dean says gruffly.

Castiel sighs but complies, not sure how the four of them are going to eat this many pancakes.

By the time Dean is finished carting out food, his demeanor seems to have improved at least enough to develop an appetite. Charlie watches him shovel food into his mouth with a wrinkled nose.

“So,” she says. “We gonna talk about this?”

“So I like to cook,” Dean says defensively through a mouthful of eggs. “Lots of men cook.”

“Not that,” Charlie says. “I was referring to the giant moose in the room. Or, well. Not in the room.”

Castiel nods. “Sam’s condition does not seem to be improving. A seizure of the magnitude he had last night could be a sign that there is some sort of neural damage.”

“He needs help, Dean,” Charlie says gently. “Medical help.”

“So what, we haul him off to a hospital?” Dean retorts. “Sorry, doc, we’re not sure whether it was the hellhound blood, the trip to hell, or the almost-curing-a-demon thing – oh, but it’s probably all three, can ya fix him? I don’t think so.”

“They could at least treat his symptoms,” Kevin says.

“His symptoms were supposed to be getting better,” Dean replies.

“The trials of hell were intended to require a sacrifice,” Castiel tells him. “They would have undoubtedly killed him. Stopping the trials was never going to simply cure him. He is injured on a metaphysical level, and that may not be something he can ‘get better’ from.”

“There isn’t exactly a precedent,” Charlie says. “We can’t fix something if we don’t know what’s wrong. At least a hospital could tell us –“

“A hospital may be too dangerous,” Castiel interjects. “With heaven emptied and the host now on earth, the chances that any of us could be recognized are astronomical.”

“He’s right,” Dean says. “If we do anything, we gotta do it here. We can find something. A faith healer, or –“

“You of all people should know faith healers don’t work like that, Dean,” Charlie points out.

Dean looks at Castiel. “Or an angel.”

Silence falls upon the table as the four of them contemplate that.

“Could an angel heal him?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says carefully. “I couldn’t do it while he was completing the trials because it was the trials themselves that were killing him. Now that the trials have failed… _if_ their hold on Sam has faded, and _if_ you could find an angel with grace left that didn’t want to kill all of us, that we could still trust… then maybe.”

“’Maybe’ is better than anything else we got,” Dean says.

“Do the angels even still have grace?” Charlie asks. “Since the fall?”

“They should,” Castiel says. “I witnessed a sister – die, from the fall. Her grace burned out. Any angel who survived should still have grace intact.”

“But you guys don’t exactly have a lot of friends among the angels anymore,” Kevin says.

“And most of them likely blame me for the fall,” Castiel says quietly.

Charlie slaps her palm down on the table. “So Cas can’t go looking for angels because they might hate him, and Dean can’t go looking because everyone knows he and Cas are bosom buddies. Kevin’s a prophet, and every angel ever knows it. So that leaves me.”

Dean shakes his head. “Charlie –“

“I know what I’m doing,” Charlie says. “I can track down the angels with your nifty bunker machinery, and I can go snooping around without being recognized. I’ll screen angels until I find one we can trust, that would help Sam, and I’ll bring him or her back here. No problem.”

“And you’re gonna do all that alone?” Dean says. “No way.”

“I can help,” Kevin says. “The angels might recognize me up close, but as long as Charlie does all the actual angel-screening it should be okay. And I know angels, and how to hide. We’ll be fine.”

“Dean,” Castiel says. “It may be our only option. We can look after Sam here, but he needs help that we can’t give him.”

Dean drops his head into his hands and spends a good thirty second spewing muffled curses before he finally looks up. “Fine,” he says. “You check in every day - _every day_ , Charlie, I fucking mean it – and you check with Cas on every angel you meet. And you cover your asses, you got it?”

“Got it,” Charlie chirps.

“Kevin?”

“Got it,” Kevin says. “Charlie, we taking your car?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “And we’re taking all these leftover pancakes.”

 

The bunker seems very quiet once Charlie and Kevin leave. Castiel busies himself sorting through books in the bunker’s library that may have anything to do with Sam’s condition or the trials, checking on Sam every hour or so. Sam does not wake up all morning, or afternoon. As evening approaches, Dean becomes increasingly more agitated; he seems to be graduating from stress-cooking to stress-cleaning, scouring every surface of the kitchen he had destroyed that morning.

Dean retreats to his room around eight o’clock with a fifth of whiskey and no dinner. Castiel tries not to worry, but it seems that with being human comes an inability to _stop_ worrying. He pores over his research for another few minutes before giving up for the day; squinting at the small text is giving him a headache, and he seems to be unable to recall most of the Sumerian he knows he used to read.

Castiel changes into sleeping clothes in Sam’s room, resigning himself to another night of strange dreams, and is just about to flop onto his own mattress when he hears a crash from Dean’s room.

He pads down the hall barefooted and knocks on Dean’s door. “Dean? Is everything alright?”

“’S fine,” Dean mumbles. “Go ‘way.”

Did you break something?” Castiel asks.

“I said go away,” Dean yells.

Castiel sighs in frustration and leans his forehead against the door. “Dean, you’re not helping anyone by sitting in your room drinking.”

Dean mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “can’t help anyone anyway.”

Cas opens the door. “Dean.”

“No, wait, don’t –“ Dean starts as Castiel comes in, but the warning comes too late, and Castiel steps right on the glass tumbler that Dean had shattered against the door. 

“Shit, Cas,” Dean curses as Castiel hisses in pain. “I didn’t – here –“

Dean crunches across the glass in his boots and hauls Castiel up into his arms, carrying him down the hall to the bathroom before Castiel can even protest. He deposits Castiel unceremoniously on the counter and pulls out the first aid kit.

Both men are quiet save for Castiel’s occasional hiss of pain as Dean painstakingly pulls glass from his injured foot. Dean’s face is focused, brows knit in concentration, his hands steady and his actions measured. Physically, he does not resemble the man from Castiel’s dream-memories, but something about them is similar.

 _Did I know you, then?_ Castiel wonders. _Could that have been you?_

He says nothing. He doesn’t know for sure, and Dean is acting strangely enough as it is.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says eventually. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

“I understand,” Castiel says. “You have a tendency to become increasingly destructive the longer you pretend everything is fine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. He finishes wrapping Castiel’s foot and tucks the supplies back into their kit, standing to place it back on its shelf. Castiel slides down from the counter, gingerly keeping his weight on his good foot. “Here, don’t walk on that. Let me help.”

Leaning on Dean, Castiel manages to hobble back to Sam’s room. Dean helps him to the mattress, turning to leave, but seems to think better of it. “Cas, I – look.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Dean,” Castiel says.

“’Course I do,” Dean says. He sits heavily on the edge of Sam’s bed, staring at his brother. “I’m just not good at this shit, is all.” He takes a deep breath. “I just – I hate not being able to do anything. I should be out there, with Charlie and Kevin, I should –”

“They’re going to be fine,” Castiel says.

“But what if they aren’t?” Dean asks. “They’re out there trying to help Sam and I’m just sitting here being useless – I can’t do anything, I can’t – shit, Cas, I –“

And, to Castiel’s horror, a tear slips down Dean’s face.

“I couldn’t talk him out of the trials, I wasn’t there for you with the angels, I –“

“Dean, no,” Castiel says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t your fault. Sam made his choices. He knew what the cost might be.”

Dean shudders, leaning into Castiel’s touch. “Cas.” He wipes his face hastily. “If – if he – if he dies, I don’t know – I can’t –“

“Sam is not going to die,” Castiel says firmly. “Charlie and Kevin will come back with help, and Sam will recover, and you are going to be fine. You don’t have to carry this on your own, Dean. You have friends. You have family.” He wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders. “You may feel helpless, but you have to let people help you, too.”

Dean’s hand comes up to clutch at Castiel’s arm, and he falls into Castiel, muffling his tears against Castiel’s shoulder. Neither says anything for a long time, listening to Sam’s even breathing.

“If you tell Sam or Charlie or Kevin about this, I’ll kill you,” Dean says eventually.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Castiel promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! She's on a roll!


	7. ad decimum, part one. (carthage, 533 a.d.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Read the Bible. Angels are warriors of God._
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> Castiel is injured in the heavenly war, and finds help where he does not expect it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: violence, gratuitous mythology

Dean falls asleep on Castiel.

Castiel assumes this is another thing he wouldn’t want Sam to know, and theoretically Sam could wake up at any moment. Castiel should, in good conscience, wake Dean up and send him to his own room.

He doesn’t want to.

Castiel is no fool. He has watched humanity for thousands of years as a member of his garrison, stationed on Earth. He knows the depth of human friendship and camaraderie. He also knows the relationship he and Dean share goes far beyond what is typical for that friendship.

Dean is fiercely loyal. He is devoted, protective, and steadfast. His strength and determination go far beyond that of any other human Castiel has ever observed, and his sense of justice is unshakable. Despite this, he has a deep-seated self-loathing from a brutal combination of survivor’s guilt, an inferiority complex, and his own perceived failure to live up to the person he believes his parents to have wanted him to be.

He does not allow himself to be loved, or cared for, because he does not believe himself to deserve it. And although Castiel is unsure of his own feelings for Dean, he will absolutely not say anything, not now, at least, because Dean would never allow it – even if he reciprocated those feelings.

But for right now, Castiel will allow himself this moment of weakness, and let Dean sleep. Warm and content despite Sam’s illness, despite everything happening right now, Castiel breathes in Dean’s leather-and-gun-oil scent, and dreams.

As always, his dream does not seem to have a start.

Castiel dives under the outstretched claw of a demon in its true form, narrowly avoiding having a wing ripped off. He strikes out, sword in hand, and catches the beast across its flank, sending it spiraling towards Balthazar, who catches its face between two limbs and reduces it to ash with his grace.

 _They’re gaining ground on the southern flank,_ Balthazar announces. _We’re pulling back._

 _But the vanguard,_ Castiel cries.

 _Fourth Garrison is moving in,_ says Anael, their garrison’s Ophan. _Zebulon’s garrison needs reinforcements._

Castiel and Balthazar join their siblings making for the southern flank, in the skies over what the humans call Carthage; a war of its own rages below, human armies fighting human armies. Inias and Hester arrive first, cutting a swathe through the demonic forces threatening to overwhelm Zebulon’s soldiers. Castiel and Balthazar strike out at those who manage to avoid the initial attack, trapping the demons between their garrison and Zebulon’s own.

 _Take that,_ Inias crows, and is immediately knocked head-over-tail by a demon three times his size. He plummets, only to be caught by Levi, coming in to protect their backs. Castiel recovers first, winging towards the enormous beast, but is beaten back by the creature’s wings. 

_Cassie,_ Balthazar cries, too late; Castiel falls backwards into the demonic ranks. Claws tear at his wings, tearing out clumps of grace; Castiel keens in pain.

Hester and Balthazar drive back Castiel’s attackers, but the oversized demon catches Castiel in one massive claw, piercing through wings and grace alike. Castiel screams. The beast flings him away, and he falls, ruined wings beating uselessly as he plummets towards Carthage – and then, darkness.

 

Castiel hurts.

His wings are broken and grace pours out of his wounds, uncontained. He cannot hear the Host. He cannot see his brothers. 

Dimly, he realizes that he is dying.

 _No,_ he thinks, and reaches out blindly, the last vestiges of his grace seeking someone, anyone – 

and then –

_Yes._

Castiel sleeps.

 

When he wakes – and he _does_ wake, which is surprising – he is in a vessel.

He vaguely remembers reaching out, but he doesn’t entirely remember possessing the man whose body he currently occupies. It likely saved his life, giving his weakened grace a place to recover.

His vessel is lying down, a thin blanket thrown over him. A fire crackles nearby, its music accompanied by the occasional scrape of metal. The sound grates at Castiel’s ears; he has not taken a vessel since Athens, and it takes some getting used to.

His vessel aches in places that Castiel can only assume correlate to his own wounded grace; the vessel itself does not seem to be damaged. Castiel turns his borrowed head toward the source of the sound, and spots an armored man sitting by the fire, sharpening a long sword.

A familiar soul sings to him.

“Theron,” he says, unthinkingly. The man turns towards him, and though he does not _look_ like Theron, Castiel would recognize that soul anywhere. It is the third time he has seen it, though the body containing it is once again unfamiliar.

This man is taller than Theron, and broader; he wears simple red-dyed clothing and laced sandals. Piled unceremoniously near the fire are various pieces of steel armor. Roman legion, Castiel recognizes from his earthly vigils. A soldier, one of the many fighting in the human war. His hair is cropped short above dark brows and dark eyes. 

“Well, you’re not dead,” says the man. “That’s a surprise.”

“A surprise to me as well,” Castiel croaks. “Where am I?”

“Just southeast of Carthage,” the man tells him. “Near Ad Decimum. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

“You found me?” Castiel asks.

The man nods, eyeing him warily. “You fell from the sky. Were I a more pious man, I might think you were a god.”

“I’m not a god,” Castiel said.

“And I am not a pious man,” the man says. “Servius Martialis.”

Castiel sits up, wincing at the twinges in his vessels’ muscles. “Castiel.”

“Just Castiel?”

“Just Castiel,” he confirms.

“And how did you come to fall out of the sky, Castiel?” Servius asks.

Castiel looks at him a long time. “You don’t know me?”

The soldier seems taken aback. “Should I?”

“No,” Castiel says. “No. Never mind. I thought –“ _I thought you knew me,_ he doesn’t say. _I thought you would remember._ “You saw me fall?”

“Not personally,” Servius says. “My general saw a star plummet from the sky and fall to the earth, and sent me to investigate. I found a copse of trees, flattened, and at the center, a crater deeper than the height of two men. In the crater was you. And don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly look like a star. Or a god.”

“I’m not,” Castiel says. “I’m… an angel.”

Servius raises his eyebrows. “An angel of the Christian god?”

Castiel sighs. “Yes.”

“He is real?”

“Of course He is,” Castiel says, frowning. “And I should return to His armies.” He tries to swing his feet under him to stand, but his vessel will not cooperate.

“Are you injured?” Servius asks. “I couldn’t find any wounds.”

“This body is not mine,” Castiel says. “It is a vessel. It isn’t wounded, but I am. My true self.”

“Do you need a doctor?” Servius asks.

“It’s not something that can simply be healed,” Castiel tells him. “I will recover, with time. And rest.”

Servius nods. “Well, I’ve looked after you this long. We’re safe here – or as safe as someone can be camped this close to the Vandals. I must report back to General Belisarius, but not for a few days. If you’re well enough to travel by then, you can come with me.”

“And if not?” Castiel asks dubiously.

“Then I’ll stay,” Servius says.

“Against your orders?” Castiel asks.

“I would not leave a man out here alone,” Servius says. “Not with Vandals about.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, genuinely surprised.

“Don’t thank me,” Servius says. “Just get better.”

 

True to his promise, Servius watches over Castiel as his grace knits slowly back together. When he isn’t scouting the forests near their camp, Servius tells Castiel of his life in the army – about his commanding officer, General Belisarius, a man whose name Castiel recognizes as one that will make history, and about his duties as Belisarius’ most trusted scout. In return, Castiel regales him with stories of the things that he has seen in his watch over the earth – of his Father’s works both beautiful and deadly, of broad salt flats and massive canyons.

The more they speak, the more Castiel is stricken by the beauty of Servius’ soul. When Gabriel had returned from his investigation while Castiel had been in Athens, the archangel had almost nothing to show for it. No one in heaven had been able to explain why a soul would be reborn rather than moving on to heaven or hell; most of the angels, in fact, had not even thought reincarnation was possible. And of course, it wasn’t as if Theron – or Servius, now – could remember.

 _Or could he?_ Castiel wonders.

“What do your people say of the afterlife?” Castiel asks Servius.

“My people?” Servius echoes.

“The Romans,” Castiel clarifies.

“Depends on who you ask, I suppose,” Servius tells him. “The Christians say a good man is blessed, and enters heaven, and an unworthy man is condemned to hell.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Castiel says, “but that is irrelevant. And the non-Christians?”

“My mother used to say that when a man dies, the spirits escort him to the River Styx,” Servius says, and this seems closer to what Castiel wanted to know. “He must pay the ferryman to take him to the afterlife – and so each man is buried with coins for his fare. Once across the river, the Judges hold you accountable for your life’s work. They bathe you in the River Lethe, and you forget the troubles of your life. If the good work – the heroic worth – of your life outweighs the evil, the Judges send you on to the Elysian Fields. If they are equal, they take you to the Plain of Asphodel. And if you have done evil, you must pay your debt in Tartarus until you have appeased the gods.”

“The River Lethe,” Castiel muses.

“What about it?”

Castiel takes a long breath, thinking. He could tell Servius the truth about his soul, but what does he really know? He does not know why, or how, his soul has been reborn. And yet Castiel cannot help his own natural curiosity. What is it that makes this soul special enough to live over and over? And why does Castiel seem drawn to him? Why do they meet every time Castiel is on Earth?

He contemplates his own grace, not yet recovered – but strong enough, certainly, for a little divine intervention.

“Come here,” Castiel says, beckoning Servius towards him. 

The soldier seems wary, but complies, kneeling near where Castiel lays in his bedroll. Castiel puts a hand on Servius’ chest, low between his ribs over where his soul shines brightest through his skin.

“We have met before,” Castiel says, “a very long time ago. You were not the same man you are now. And yet your soul is exactly the same. I’ve never seen one like it.”

“My soul?” Servius repeats quietly.

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel says. “Strong and devoted. Steadfast. _Righteous_.” He focuses his grace, and reaches inward for Servius’ soul. “You don’t remember. You would say you were bathed in the River Lethe. But I may be able to help you remember who you were, before. And you would remember me.” He meets Servius’ eyes, dark and curious. “Would you allow me to do this?”

Servius does not hesitate. He nods.

Castiel pools what grace he has and wraps it gently around Servius’ soul, touching the hidden recesses of memory stored there and flooding them with light to banish the fog of dark forgetfulness. That done, he paints Servius’ soul with protective light, preventing anything from closing off his memories again.

He withdraws his hand and waits. 

Servius’ eyes have fallen closed, his forehead creased in thought. “I know you,” he says slowly. “I remember you. There was… a plague. I had a wife. You… you saved her.”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

“You saved me,” Servius says. “And you called me –“

“Theron,” Castiel says. “That was your name, then.”

“And before,” Servius continues. “I was very young. You came into my home. I thought you were a goddess.”

“You looked upon my true form,” Castiel says. “It should have blinded you. But you looked on without fear. I knew then that you were special. I was ordered to kill you, but I couldn’t. You were so young. And your soul was as beautiful then as it is now.”

Servius’ eyes open, and a blush darkens his fair cheeks. “Does everyone have this? Memories of other lives?”

“Just you,” Castiel says. “As far as I can tell. And I don’t know why. Or how.”

“And every time, you find me,” Servius says. “You save me.”

“Angels are protectors,” Castiel tells him. “We are charged with guarding humanity.”

“Humanity,” Servius points out. “Not me, specifically.”

“As I said before, you seem to be special,” Castiel says.

Servius smiles, and the expression warms something in Castiel’s battered grace. “It seems I owe you a great deal,” he says. “I’ll have to find some way to repay you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Castiel says.

“Of course it is,” Servius says, eyes twinkling. “Have no fear, I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

A wave of exhaustion hits Castiel, and his vessel sways. Servius’ hands come out to steady him, gripping his shoulders. “Are you alright?”

“Using so much of my grace may have been unwise,” Castiel admits grudgingly. “I’m weaker than I had thought.”

“Rest,” Servius says. “I’ll watch over you.”

“See?” Castiel says sleepily, already losing consciousness. “You’re repaying me already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one for the day, more tomorrow (hopefully!)


	8. ad decimum, part two. (carthage, 533 a.d.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m not a… hammer, as you say. I have questions, I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore._
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> Castiel is recovering, but is reluctant to return to heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: artistic license taken with history

Slowly but surely, Castiel’s grace knits itself back together. 

The day after he gifts Servius with the memories of his past lives, Castiel manages to stand with only a little assistance; by the second day, he has mastered short walks around their small camp. He may not be able to fly yet, but he can feel himself healing. And so when the day comes that Servius must report back to his army or be labeled a deserter, Castiel is confident enough in his health to accompany him.

“You should know,” Servius warns him, “that the general will have nothing but questions for you. He will know if you lie, and he will be… displeased.”

“Will he believe me?” Castiel asks. “You did, easily enough, but…”

“He may not,” Servius agrees. “But even if he doesn’t, it won’t matter. The men called the falling star an omen, a sign of our victory over the Vandals. If Belisarius can tell them we have an angel on our side – even if he himself doesn’t believe it – the men’s morale may very well win this war for us. Belisarius is no fool. He knows how to lead his men.”

“You seem to know him well,” Castiel observes.

An unreadable expression flits across Servius’ face. “We have been friends for a long time,” he says. “I knew him before he was our general. He is a good man. Proud, ruthless, yes, but good. He inspires men to follow him.”

“He inspires you?” Castiel asks.

“He did, once,” Servius says, but does not elaborate.

It takes them several days to trek through the Carthaginian forests, with Castiel as weak as he is. They reach the Roman encampment by sundown on the third day, eliciting whispers as the soldiers realize that Servius is not alone. The sensation of so many watching eyes unnerves Castiel; he finds himself drawing closer to Servius as if the larger man can shield him from prying gazes.

“Let them talk,” Servius tells him quietly. “Soldiers always do.”

The tents near the center of the encampent are larger, with more space between them and fewer men milling about. Castiel senses the soul of General Belisarius before Servius points him out, his soul shining in vibrant, fiery colors of courage and intelligence.

And Castiel recognizes it. Belisarius bears the soul of Servius’ soulmate – the woman Charis that Castiel had healed in Athens. There is no mistaking it – Belisarius’ soul sings a radiant counterpoint to the steadfast, rolling melody of Servius’ own. 

Castiel’s thoughts are racing, so much so that he does not even register that Servius and Belisarius are arguing until halfway through the conversation.

“-don’t have time for this,” Belisarius is saying, voice heated but hushed. “The scouts have reported Gelimer’s army only miles from here –“

“You can _make_ time for this,” Servius interrupts. “Your men are tired, sir, they’re exhausted, they’ve been marching for days. They need something to inspire them –“

“You’re too late,” Belisarius snaps. “Had you been here three days ago, as I ordered –“

“He very well may have died on the way here,” Servius hisses. “You’re the one who told me to find him, and that’s exactly what I did.”

“I told you to find me something that could win me this war,” Belisarius retorts. “Not a half-dead so-called angel of a god no one here truly believes in –“

Servius reaches forward to grip Belisarius by the elbow, drawing up to his full height, which towers over the general. “I did as you asked me,” Servius says lowly. “As I have _always_ done _everything_ you ask of me. Forgive me if your foolish, ill-gotten war is more important to you than the love of those loyal to you.”

Belisarius wrenches his arm from Servius’ grasp. “It _is_ more important,” he says, face twisted with disdain. “I would have thought you would understand that by now.”

Castiel examines Servius’ face as Belisarius storms away, watching shock and hurt fade to be replaced by a carefully impassive mask. “You love him,” Castiel says quietly.

Servius flinches. “Don’t say that,” he hisses. “Not here. You don’t understand.” He turns on his heel and all but flees the encampment. Castiel follows, doing his best to keep up with Servius’ brisk pace. 

Servius stops only when they are a good fifty yards between them and the nearest Roman tent, setting his back up against a tree and sliding to the ground as if he is a puppet with his strings cut. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “If I had known the general would react so poorly, I would never have asked you to walk into that camp with me.”

“You were following orders,” Castiel says. “I can understand that.”

Servius closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the tree. “We were… close, once. Belisarius and I.”

“What happened?” Castiel asks.

“He was promoted,” Servius replies simply. “He caught the emperor’s eye, and suddenly he was the most well-known man in Rome. Got married, had children. It wouldn’t do for the highest-ranking military officer in Constantinople to be seen with a male lover. I tell myself not to feel anything for him. But I can’t seem to leave him, either.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says.

Servius looks at him. “You’re not going to say anything? Condemn me? I’ve heard your god doesn’t look kindly upon men who prefer the company of other men.”

“My Father is utterly indifferent to sexual orientation,” Castiel tells him. “If he had not intended you to love men, he would not have crafted you that way.”

Servius blinks. “I see.” He picks up a fallen leaf, shredding it idly. 

“There is something you should know,” Castiel says slowly. “About your general.”

“What, that he’s an arrogant ass?” Servius says.

“That,” Castiel agrees. “And… I have seen his soul before. When I met you.” He lowers himself to sit next to Servius. “He shares the same soul as your wife in Athens. Charis.”

The leaf falls from Servius’ hands. “What?” he says, shocked. “I thought you said I was the only one.”

“I thought you were,” Castiel says. “You – as Theron – and Charis were soulmates. Your souls are bound, through space and time. It is possible that whatever is causing your reincarnation is also affecting her – pulling your souls through the cycle together.”

“Belisarius is my soulmate,” Servius says flatly.

Castiel shrugs, mimicking the human gesture he has seen Servius and other humans perform. “Just because your souls are bound does not mean your relationship is going to be perfect. Some soulmates never meet. Others hate each other. But something connects them. You were married in Athens. Here, your relationship is more complicated.” He considers for a moment. “You may have been related in Egypt, as well,” he adds. “I confess I did not look closely at any soul but yours at the time.”

“So he’s being reborn because I am?” Servius asks.

“Or you’re being reborn because he is,” Castiel points out.

“And you have no idea why,” Servius says.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel replies. “I don’t.”

Servius nods, and is quiet.

“What will you do now?” Castiel asks. “Now that your general has no interest in me?”

“Return to my duties, I suppose,” Servius says. “I am still a soldier, after all. And you? Will you return to your own army?”

Castiel frowns. “I could,” he says. “My grace is still very weak, but with some effort I believe I could return to the Host. And yet…” He hesitates. “It’s likely they have presumed me dead. I could return now, or I could return in a few days, when I have regained more of my strength. It will make no difference to them; time does not affect us as it does you humans.”

“You could stay,” Servius offers. 

“I’d like to learn what I can about your situation,” Castiel admits. 

“Then stay,” Servius says, more firmly. “I don’t exactly have much to offer, here. Everything I own at the moment can be packed up on my back and marched, but… after the war is over, whatever happens, you could…” He looks away, a flush high on his cheeks. “You could come with me. You would like Rome, I think. We’re no angels, but we get by.”

“You mean this,” Castiel says, and wonders.

Servius rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, you said yourself that you don’t have to go back to heaven. They think you’re dead.”

“I did say that,” Castiel agrees.

“You’ve saved my life plenty of times,” Servius continues. “Maybe not in this life, but… you’re there. You’re always there. You, and him,” he says, and Castiel does not need to ask who he refers to.

“You and your general do share a profound bond,” Castiel says. “And I cannot deny something draws me to you. Perhaps we are connected, the three of us, in some way we cannot comprehend.”

Servius reaches out tentatively and, when Castiel does not pull away, entwines their fingers together. “Stay,” he says. “With me. At least until this war is over. Until we can learn more.”

Tiny points of heat suffuse Castiel’s vessel’s hand where their skin makes contact, creeping upwards to spread warmth into the vessel’s chest. It is a pleasant sensation, Castiel discovers, if confusing; more confusing is the abrupt jolt somewhere in the vessel’s stomach when Castiel looks up at Servius’ face, suddenly very close to his own. Perhaps there is something wrong with his grace, or a malady of his vessel he has overlooked –

These thoughts come suddenly to an end as Servius tips forwards, touching his lips to Castiel’s vessel’s. He stills, observing pressure and warmth as his vessel’s blood rushes suddenly to its face; Servius pulls back, eyebrow raised.

“You know, it’s customary, when someone kisses you, to kiss back,” Servius says, trying to sound playful but his voice betraying an underlying nervousness.

“Is it?” Castiel asks, touching curious fingers to his vessel’s lips. “I wouldn’t know. It’s never happened to me before.”

“Really?” Servius asks. “Thousands of years old and you’ve never been kissed?”

“I had never taken a vessel before I met you in Athens,” Castiel tells him. “Kissing is a purely human construct.”

Servius pulls away, putting more space between them. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize –“

“It’s alright,” Castiel says. “It’s just… different.”

“Good different, or bad different?” Servius asks.

“I’m not sure,” Castiel tells him. “Perhaps we should try again.”

Servius smiles. “We will,” he says. “There will be time. If you’re a virgin, after all, we should take things slow.” He pauses. “That is, of course, if you’d like – I mean, I didn’t ask if you – I know it’s all probably very strange –“

“It _is_ strange,” Castiel says, “but I am not… opposed, to the idea.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay?” Servius asks.

He shouldn’t. Castiel is sure there is still a war raging in heaven, and his brothers and sisters need his help. He may be injured, but he could return, and aid them. An angel outside the Host, cut off from heaven, is an anomaly. An abomination. It has not happened since Lucifer’s fall. 

And yet –

Castiel _wants._

He understands, now, why Gabriel is so fond of humans and their bright, fleeting lives; he understands why his Father favors them over all others. Castiel can count on one of his vessel’s hands the number of humans he has met, and yet this single soul – this strange, eternal human soul, that defies all logic, that shines with righteousness no mere human should possess – this soul makes him _feel_ , as no angel should, and _question_.

Castiel wonders if this is what it is like to feel human.

“I’ll stay,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General Belisarius was a real person, and his invasion of Carthage was a real thing. Pretty sure there weren't actual angels involved, though. Or reincarnation.


	9. ad decimum, part three. (carthage, 533 a.d.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _These... feelings, they aren't for me. For us._  
> 
> Perhaps humanity is rubbing off on Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: very mild sexual content, blood, and gore.

Human sensation, Castiel decides, is completely baffling.

How does any human function day-to-day with so many neurons firing constantly, biological responses to color, sound, pressure, friction, _heat_ -

"Wait-" Castiel gasps.

Servius pulls his mouth away from where it had been burning a path along Castiel's vessel's collarbone. "Is this all right?"he asks.

"I don't -" Castiel pants. "I don't know, it's - it's so _much_ -"

"We'll stop," Servius says instantly, his hands vanishing from Castiel's vessel's overheated skin, and Castiel wants to simultaneously shout in frustration and sigh in relief. 

"Human bodies are so _confusing_ ," Castiel says hoarsely. "All this - sensitivity, so many nerve endings - impractical blood flow to unnecessary places-"

"Those places are _completely_ necessary, I'll have you know," Servius says, grinning.

"It's overwhelming," Castiel continues, "not to mention inefficient. How do you bear it?"

"Never really thought about it," Servius answer, idly tracing a finger down Castiel's vessel's arm, leaving a line of bumps in its wake as the vessel's subdermal muscles contract involuntarily. Castiel watches in fascination. "I suppose you get used to it?"

"I'm not sure I ever could," Castiel says.

"Like I said, we'll go as slow as you want," Servius promises. 

"I don't _know_ what I want," Castiel tells him, frustrated.

Servius sits up from where he had been lying half-atop Castiel's vessel; Castiel mimics him automatically. "Well," Servius says, "let's just talk about the kissing, then. Kissing is good?"

"Kissing is good," Castiel agrees, and his vessel's heart skips wildly as Servius' eyes drop to its mouth, no doubt still red and swollen. "And what you did, after..."

"I didn't do anything but kiss your neck and shoulders," Servius laughs. "Maybe bite a little. You liked that?"

"Too much," Castiel confesses. "I liked it too much."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Servius says. "But you know, there's so much more."

"More?" Castiel says incredulously. "How do you stand it?"

"Because it's awesome," Servius answers with a grin. "I could show you, but if you don't want to -"

"I want to," Castiel insists. "But I - I'm afraid."

"Then we'll save it," Servius says.

From somewhere beyond the confines of Servius' tent, a horn blows - a call to muster. Servius sighs and casts about for his discarded weapons. "I have to go," he says. "I'd ask you to come with me, but I'm not really sure how the general would react."

Castiel starts to respond, but Servius has already walked out. "I'll just... wait here, then," he finishes lamely.

It is nearly an hour before Servius returns, and the expression on his face is grim. "Bad news?" Castiel asks.

Servius nods. "The Vandals have not yielded as expected. We have them outnumbered and out maneuvered, and yet they fight as if the gods themselves were on their side. General Belisarius has received word that the Vandals plan to take the nearby defile. A unit has been sent to get there first. As for me, I am to fight at the general's side."

"In the vanguard?" Castiel asks.

"The general's army is mostly mercenaries - Huns from the north. He says he wants someone he can trust beyond coin at his side. I've been given command of his personal guard," Servius tells him excitedly. "He may act cold, but he hasn't forgotten me. I knew he wouldn't."

"I see," Castiel says, frowning.

Servius' face falls. "I don't mean -" he begins, then sighs. "It's not - it's not as if I would - as if I expect him to..."

Castiel tilts his vessel's head, expectant.

"I wouldn't go back to him," Servius says quietly. "Not now. Probably not ever. What we had was real, but it's over. And now, with you -"

 _Ah,_ Castiel thinks, understanding. "You think I harbor feelings of jealousy," he says. "Envy."

Servius blinks. "You don't?"

"He is your soulmate," Castiel says. "You are bound to him, and though that bond may manifest romantically, platonically, or otherwise, it is a bond of a strength that rivals anything else within my Father's creations." He takes Servius' hand in his vessel's own, marveling at the frisson of pleasure his vessel takes at even the tiniest of touches. "You and I do share a profound bond," he continues. "As do you and your general. These aren't bonds that would cancel each other out. One does not nullify the other."

"I think I understand," Servius says, frowning. "Still. I wouldn't return to him. I may have loved him, once, but those feelings - well. I won't say they're gone, but it's not a life I could ever have again, and I suppose I've given up on that. It's just good to know that - he still trusts me. He hasn't forgotten me. And if all I can ever have from him again is his trust, well, that's something worth fighting for."

"Of course," Castiel agrees. He stands. "You'll command his guard, then, and if you'll have me, I'll go with you."

"You're sure that's wise?" Servius asks. "You haven't fully recovered from your fall, yet."

"My grace is depleted, it's true," Castiel says, "but even injured I'd wager I'm a match for any of your human soldiers."

"Well, I'd rather have you," Servius says, grinning. "Injured or not. And I certainly won't tell you what you can or can't do. We'll get you outfitted, then, like a proper Roman - "

"That won't be necessary," Castiel says. "There's no human weapon that could kill me. I have no need of armor. And as for arms, I have my angel blade. That will be enough."

Servius shrugs. "Suit yourself. In any case, I'm to report back to the general as soon as I can. If there's nothing you need, then... shall we go?"

"I'll follow you," Castiel says.

The camp is a flurry of activity as Servius leads Castiel to General Belisarius' personal guard, the _bucellarii_. "The general employs nearly seven thousand of them, all told," Servius explains, "but only a few hundred are here at the moment. Armenian John is taking the majority of them to take the defile. I'm to command the rest."

The soldiers Servius points out seem to all be cavalry, gathered under a banner that Castiel assumes must be Belisarius' personal flag. Servius guides Castiel to a makeshift paddock where several unclaimed horses are tied up, geared and ready to go. "You've never ridden before, I assume," Servius says.

"Not personally, no," Castiel replies, "but this vessel has. I believe he is one of the Hunnic mercenaries you spoke of before."

"Certainly looks like one," Servius agrees. "Any of these horses are up for grabs, in any case. Their riders are all dead or missing. Will you be all right fighting from horseback?"

"I'm no stranger to battle," Castiel says dryly. "I've been fighting in wars since before your world was even created."

Servius snorts. "I get it, you're better than all of us put together, it's fine," he says.

"Maybe not _all_ of you," Castiel says. "Rome might have one or two soldiers too many."

Servius blinks. "That was... a joke? _You_ made a joke."

Castiel feels the corners of his vessel's mouth stretch in a smile. "It seems humanity is rubbing off on me," he says.

Servius leers. "Not yet, I haven't."

Before Castiel can ask what he means, Servius is riding off towards the _bucellarii_. Castiel chooses a horse at random and follows, only idly listening as Servius calls out orders to his newly-assigned men. 

He is surprised by the discipline of the Roman army; they move as a unit and almost act as one being rather than the many thousand they are. Castiel isn't sure they would stand against supernatural forces, but for mortals they are certainly impressive. The heavenly army is less organized by comparison, but that is only because of the chaotic nature of the enemies they face; demons and Knights of Hell cannot be expected to adhere to any sort of rules of combat. 

Castiel finds himself fascinated by the reactions of the soldiers' souls to the strong radiance of Servius and Belisarius. It is unusual enough - unheard of, even - to see souls that are born again and again through time. That alone would make them unique. And yet, even excluding the matter of their reincarnation, their souls are anything but normal. As Servius and Belisarius call out orders and encouragement to their men, Castiel can see the souls around them light up with colors of courage and strength they did not previously possess.

As they ride Servius must notice Castiel looking at him strangely. "Something on my face?" he asks.

"No," Castiel says. "I'm only trying to figure out what you are."

"What I am?" Servius says.

"You seem to be human," Castiel says. "You have a human body, and yet your soul, and the general's... they are unlike anything I have ever seen."

"You're saying I'm not human?" Servius asks incredulously. "I think I would know if I wasn't."

"You may be," Castiel agrees. "But there's certainly _something_ about you that isn't. Perhaps you have been touched by something divine, or otherworldly. I don't know."

Servius' response is cut short by a shout of warning from one of his own men; Castiel looks up to see the Vandal army just ahead.

Castiel can hear General Belisarius barking orders from afar; Servius' own forces jump to formation around him just in time to intercept the Vandal charge, and Castiel lets his angel blade manifest from its pocket of interdimensional space. He tears into the first Vandal that slips past the line of soldiers before him without hesitation.

He tries not to think about how much easier killing humans has become since Egypt.

For every Vandal Castiel kills, three more seem to spring to fill his place; his grace immediately seals the few scratches he does take from arrows that he doesn't see coming. His main concern is for Servius, and he devotes himself to protecting Servius' blind spots, filling in the spaces left by the _bucellarii_ that fall around them.

And yet the Vandals keep coming.

Castiel does not know whether it is the defense of their homeland or something else entirely that fuels them, but the Vandals, though outnumbered, gain ground quickly on the Roman troops. Servius' _bucellarii_ fall back gradually, giving ground until they are backed up against the mercenaries Belisarius commands. The mercenaries are faring even worse than Servius' men, and Belisarius' protective unit is wearing thin.

Servius dispatches the last of the Vandals in his immediate range and calls out to his troops to fortify Belisarius' defenses; as the cavalry move around him Castiel finds himself and Servius at Belisarius' side, insulated from the battle if only for a moment.

Belisarius eyes Castiel dubiously, blood running down his face from an injury Castiel cannot see, before turning to Servius. "Still think one angel can win this war?" the general pants.

"He's still here, isn't he?" Servius retorts, and Castiel lunges forward to protect the general's exposed flank from a Vandal who has managed to break through the mercenaries.

"Thanks," Belisarius says, surprised, but before he can give another order, a Vandal arrow seems to sprout from his shoulder, and he falls from his horse.

"Belisarius!" Servius yells, panic suffusing his voice, and maneuvers his own horse to shield the fallen general from being trampled in the fray. Servius slides to the ground and drags the general up onto his mount, riding backwards through the ranks with Belisarius in tow.

"Servius!" Castiel hisses, following as Servius finds a clear space and lays Belisarius out, wrenching away his armor to find the wound itself. Belisarius is breathing, still, but as Castiel gets closer he knows it won't be long. The arrow has pierced his lung, and he is losing blood fast.

"Castiel," Servius says hoarsely, looking up at him; his face is sweat-streaked and desperate.

Castiel summons what grace he has and kneels beside the fallen general. "Your men need you," he tells Servius. "I can heal him, just go."

Servius hesitates only a moment before finding his horse again and charging back into the fray. Castiel yanks the arrow unceremoniously from his shoulder and pours his grace into the wound, knitting lung and muscle and skin back together as if they were new.

Belisarius coughs a few times as his flesh repairs itself, eyes gradually gaining focus as he recognizes Castiel. "You really are what you say you are," he says weakly, examining the place where his wound used to be in wonder.

Castiel feels exhaustion swamp his vessel as his last vestiges of grace drain into the general. A few previously-healed cuts on his arms re-open, his grace no longer strong enough to seal them. Belisarius watches in shock. "You chose to save me, at this cost to yourself?"

"I saved you because Servius loves you," Castiel says shortly, "and because it was the right thing to do. Your army needs you, general, now get back to work."

Belisarius retrieves the armor Servius has removed and sets off, presumably to find another horse and rejoin his men. Castiel tries to get up from the ground but falls back down again, his human vessel exhausted from the fight without grace to sustain it. "Humans," Castiel gripes, forcing his tired muscles to obey, dragging himself back onto his horse.

In the few minutes it has taken to heal Belisarius, the tide of the battle has shifted once more. The Roman army is reeling, Castiel can tell, and yet the Vandals don't seem to be advancing. He can hear a crier report to Belisarius - Armenian John has taken the defile, the Vandal general Ammatas has been defeated.

Belisarius takes the opportunity for what it is and calls a retreat. It is wise, from what Castiel can tell - his forces are exhausted, but they can take this opportunity to regroup. As the cavalry fall back around him, Castiel can see the Vandal army doing the same.

He rides towards the _bucellarii,_ searching for Servius, but can't pinpoint his soul among the thousands. "Servius?" he asks the nearest soldier.

The man shakes his head.

Panic suffuses Castiel's vessel and he rides for the battlefield the Romans are deserting. "Servius!" he cries, shout lost among the screech of carrion crows and the shouts of retreating soldiers.

A weak cough answers, and Castiel spots his soul, faint but still glimmering, pinned under a fallen horse. Castiel rushes towards him, putting all his failing human strength into moving the animal; somehow the carcass budges, and he drags Servius' uncooperative body out from underneath.

"Servius," he whispers, cradling the soldier's head in his lap. Servius' eyes focus and unfocus, lips trying to form words.

"General..." he manages, and is overtaken by a coughing fit.

"General Belisarius is fine," Castiel says, taking in the damage to Servius' body. His legs are twisted at unnatural angles, and he seems to be bleeding from too many places at once; Castiel reaches fruitlessly for his grace and finds nothing, finds barely enough to power his wings.

"Don't move," Castiel says. He gathers Servius into his arms, which tremble in panic and exhaustion. "I can fly you to your medics, they can -"

"It's all right," Servius says weakly, blood bubbling from his mouth. "You can - find me again, I'll -"

"No, you stay with me," Castiel says hysterically, tears streaming involuntarily down his face, "you said - you said you'd stay -"

"I'll come back," Servius says. "I always come back."

Castiel feels Servius' soul depart as his body finally gives out, soul shining for a brief moment before it is pulled away by Death.

 _No,_ Castiel thinks, and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The battle of Ad Decimum was a real thing, and though I've taken some artistic license I've tried to stick to mostly historical accounts. ...Plus angels.
> 
> Thanks for your patience, you folks who have been waiting!


	10. samsara. (???)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When God is gone and the Devil takes hold,  
>  Who will have mercy on your soul?_
> 
> Castiel follows the Righteous Soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating for this work has gone up.
> 
> Warnings: vast liberties taken with Greek mythology, sexual content

Intellectually, Castiel is familiar with the process of death.

The various human religions have some discrepancies when it comes to the actual shape and form of their existence after death, but most of them at least get some parts right. Mortal souls, once released from their body, travel beyond their own plane of existence and are sorted into their various afterlifes - heaven, hell, or purgatory. Each soul interprets the journey differently; some see a road they must travel to reach their destination, while others feel as if they are carried upon a gentle breeze. From an outside perspective, as an angel looking in, the plane of death appears as a long, winding river very close to what the Greeks and Romans describe in their epics.

These are things Castiel knows, but has never actually experienced himself.

The reaper that carries Servius' soul cannot have missed Castiel's presence as he follows on bedraggled, graceless wings, but it ignores him regardless, and Castiel follows him doggedly to the river the Greeks call Styx. The reaper lays the soul gently upon the bank, and soon the river's current picks it up and carries it towards what Castiel knows is the entrance to heaven. 

Servius' soul is righteous. Castiel has no doubt that he deserves heaven.

There are guardians here, erinyes sworn to Death to protect his lands from intruders; the Greeks call them the Furies, but there are certainly more than three. They eye Castiel curiously as he pushes past them, but they dare not challenge an angel, even one half-dead such as Castiel.

He follows Servius' soul as it bobs in the eddies and swirls of the river Styx, until it comes to rest against the landing of the judges. Castiel knows their names - Minos, Aeacus, and Radamanthys, the Gatekeepers - but has never actually seen them.

Their true forms are nothing special when compared to the vast divinity of angels or the twisted, horned carapaces of demons, but they are no less intimidating in their own right. They are tall and thin, nearly human save for their hollow, empty faces and elongated, bony hands. The only feature to truly distinguish them from each other is their garb. Aeacus, keeper of the Gate of Hell, is draped with chains over his black robe, while Rhadamanthys, keeper of the Gate of Heaven, bears the sigil of Simon Peter - the Keeper of the Keys of Heaven. 

The third, Minos, stoops to retrieve Servius' soul from the river, but Castiel flings himself between them, crash-landing awkwardly upon the bank. "Wait," he croaks feebly, and the Gatekeepers turn their eyeless gazes toward him. "Wait."

"Castiel," Minos says.

Castiel's vessel burns where the waters of the Styx lap against it; the plane of Death is not a place for mortal flesh. He ignores the stinging pain and cradles Servius' soul between human hands, shielding it from the judges. "You can't take him," Castiel says stubbornly. "I won't let you."

"Castiel," Minos says again, this time in something akin to exasperation.

Only then does Castiel register that these judges know his name.

"You know me?" he asks.

"You have been here before," says Rhadamanthys, "and you will be again."

"I've never been here," Castiel says.

"You have," replies Rhadamanthys.

"It may be the first time, for him," says Aeacus.

"I don't understand," Castiel says.

"There is no time, here," Minos says. "We know you because we have met you. We will meet you."

"And Servius?" Castiel asks, and the soul in his hands pulses with warmth as if in answer.

Minos sighs with an air of someone who has had to explain the same thing over many times. "The Righteous Soul," he says. "Come to us again, lost in the cycle."

"Why?" Castiel demands. "A human soul shouldn't be reborn. He should be at rest, in Heaven. But I've met him - only he's a different person -"

Aeacus nods. "The same soul, washed in the waters of forgetfulness, carried by God's messenger to repeat the cycle anew. The Righteous Soul exists across many times, many lives. It is _samsara_ , the never ending cycle."

"Why?" Castiel asks again.

There is a moment of silence before Rhadamanthys finally replies, "We do not know."

"How can you not know?" Castiel yells. "Aren't you the ones who decide what happens to him? Aren't you the ones who put him through the cycle every time?"

"It is not ours to decide," Minos says. "It is ours to guide, and to obey. And in the case of the Righteous Soul, we are tasked to wait."

"For what?" Castiel asks.

"For the Walker of the Wheel to join him," Rhadamanthys answers.

"The what?"

Minos holds out a bony hand, and against Castiel's will his fingers uncoil from Servius' soul. The soul floats unhurriedly towards the Gatekeeper and settles in his hand. "This soul is bound to another," he says. "The Walker of the Wheel, the first to repeat the cycle. Sometimes the souls come to us together, and God's messenger tosses them back into the ocean of birth. Sometimes they are separated, and we keep the first until the second arrives."

Aeacus drifts towards the water's edge and plucks a soul from the water, holding it out for Castiel's inspection. This one, too, is familiar.

"Belisarius," Castiel recognizes. "He's dead, too? But - I only just saved him -"

"There is no time here," Minos reminds him, more firmly this time. "There is only death."

"And rebirth?" Castiel asks.

"No," Rhadamanthys says. "This is not a place for birth. And that is why we await God's messenger to retrieve the Walker of the Wheel and the Righteous Soul, until they return to us again."

"And the cycle continues," Aeacus agrees.

Suddenly the three Gatekeepers raise their hollow faces in tandem, fixed on a point behind Castiel. He turns.

"Brother," says the angel before him. He is in a vessel, a tall, dark-skinned human, but Castiel can see the echoes of seven wings shimmering upon his back.

"Raphael," Rhadamanthys greets him.

Castiel's eyes widen as Minos and Aeacus step forward and offer the souls they hold to the archangel. " _You're_ the messenger?"

"God's messenger to the dead," Raphael agrees, taking the souls. "Perhaps not as glamorous as His Herald or His General, but nevertheless." He examines Castiel curiously. "You're Castiel, aren't you? Everyone thinks you were killed, brother."

Castiel swallows. "I was injured," Castiel says. "I had to take a vessel, to restore myself."

"Then what are you doing here?" Raphael asks.

"He followed the Righteous Soul," Aeacus tells the archangel. 

"He seems very devoted," Minos adds.

"To a human soul?" Raphael asks.

"He helped me," Castiel says reluctantly. "He cared for me as I healed."

"And why did you not then return to Heaven?" Raphael asks.

"I... didn't want to," Castiel admits. "I wanted to stay."

Raphael's wings beat agitatedly. "Angels do not want," he says, confused. "Angels obey."

"I had no more orders to follow," Castiel tells him. "Our brothers and sisters no doubt thought me dead."

"Then you should have returned," Raphael says, "and rejoined the war."

"I chose otherwise," Castiel says.

"You do not choose!" Raphael says angrily. "You obey, Castiel, and if you do not, if you cannot -"

"I didn't want -" Castiel begins.

"No!" Raphael shouts, his true voice echoing mightily over the waters of the river. He surges forward, closing a hand around Castiel's vessel's arm. "There is something very wrong with you, brother. You are unwell."

"I'm not -" Castiel protests, but Raphael has already taken flight. 

When they land Castiel finds himself in a room with white walls and a desk, behind which sits -

_No,_ Castiel thinks.

"Hello, Castiel," says Naomi, and Castiel _remembers_ -

Castiel bolts upright as he wakes, disoriented.

Cold sweat drenches his skin and the sheets upon which he had fallen asleep. Sam's gentle snores fill the room, bringing Cas harshly back to reality. 

His thoughts race as his heart beat slows from its frantic, erratic pace. These are no normal dreams that have been plaguing his sleep, he knows with almost absolute certainty. These are memories. They are real. They happened.

He had seen Naomi in his memory, and he had recognized her - had remembered enough to be struck by inexplicable terror merely at the sight of her - and yet before tonight, he would have sworn that he'd never laid eyes on her before his rescue from Purgatory.

_How many times have you torn into my head and washed it clean?!_

_Frankly? Too damn many._

Perhaps with Naomi dead, all the memories she had taken from Castiel are returning - albeit gradually. Castiel wonders what else he does not remember.  
He's relatively sure now that the soul he has met repeatedly throughout his memories - the Righteous Soul, as the Gatekeepers had called him - is Dean. Without his grace he cannot remember precisely what Dean's soul looked like, but he remembers its strength, its compassion, its devotion.

It is no wonder he felt so drawn to Dean, when they first met; no wonder a single word from Dean had Castiel ready and willing to disobey everything he had ever known as an angel. It hadn't been the first time, after all. He'd spoken truer than he'd known when he had said they shared a profound bond. Something had always drawn Castiel to the Righteous Soul - he only wishes he knew what.

There's also the matter of the soul the Gatekeepers had called the Walker of the Wheel. If they were to be believed, it is this soul that is causing Dean's to be reborn, through the bond they share as soulmates. 

Castiel has seen the Winchesters' Heaven. He knows Sam is Dean's soulmate, though in this particular life they do not share the romantic bond most humans associate with the soulmates in their poems and stories. Which means, for better or for worse, Sam is the Walker of the Wheel, and his soul bears whatever blessing or curse it is that allows the Winchesters to be reborn.

Castiel knows this is something the brothers should be told, and yet - 

And yet, without further knowledge, without knowing the actual cause of their rebirth, Castiel knows his memories will only raise more questions. Perhaps it is best that he keep these questions to himself until he can remember anything actually helpful.

He wonders if there's anything connected to their rebirth that could help with Sam's current situation.

Beside him, a muffled rustling breaks Castiel out of his reverie. He looks over to find that Dean is still sleeping next to him, half-sprawled on his belly and tangled up in a blanket he had apparently pilfered from Castiel in his sleep. Castiel briefly remembers drifting off with Dean still in his arms, curling around the hunter pressed warm to his chest.

Castiel aches.

He feels like an entirely different person than the one he was when he fell asleep. His half-formed, uncertain feelings for Dean have solidified into something hot and bright and sharp in his chest, easily recognizable now that he remembers his past experiences with Servius.

In Rome, Castiel had no frame of reference for any human sensation at all; simple touches of hands and mouths were enough to overwhelm him. Now, Castiel is no stranger to physical arousal; human vessels are erratic at best, and prone to sudden reactions from no more than simple visual or auditory stimuli. 

He finds himself watching Dean in his sleep even though he knows the hunter would object - and has before. Castiel seems to be giving into simple human weaknesses more and more, these days . He cannot help but let his eyes linger on the curve of Dean's back, on the few inches of exposed skin where the hem of his shirt has ridden up. Cas wants to press his mouth to the divots on either side of Dean's spine, wants to find out if Dean's skin taste the same as it smells, whiskey and engine oil and leather and gunpowder.

Cas extracts himself from the tangle of sheets, sparing a glance to ensure that both brothers are still sleeping peacefuly before slipping out of Sam's room and heading for the showers.  
He peels his borrowed nightclothes from his skin and cranks the shower temperature as hot as it will go. The water scalds his skin, a pink flush spreading over his skin. 

What would Dean say if he knew Castiel watched him, wanted him? Castiel knows that the person Dean pretends to be is not the same as the person he truly is. Often the hunter says things that Castiel knows he doesn't mean, merely because he thinks it's the appropriate or expected reaction. 

If there were no expectations, no self-loathing, no ailing brothers or impending doom, would Dean want Castiel as well?

Cas presses fingers to his lips, thinks of Servius' mouth on his, of Servius' hands trailing paths across his skin. Thinks of Dean, of the breadth of his shoulders, of the curve of his bowed legs, of the plushness of his mouth. He feels the quickening of his own breath, feels the heat spark low in his belly, feels the swell of his penis as blood rushes to it.

_Don't call it that,_ he imagines Dean chiding. _C'mon, no one calls it that._

Cas palms his cock, wondering how Dean would touch him; he is an attentive lover, Castiel knows. Would he take his time, spend hours taking Cas apart at the seams, all gentle caresses and slow, sweet whispers? Or would he be impatient, frenzied - as desperate for touch as Castiel is for his?

Castiel's hips hitch involuntarily, thrusting into the tunnel of his fingers as he lets his fantasies take him away, imagining Dean's mouth, kiss-bitten red and swollen, Dean's skin, flushed and bare for Castiel's perusal. He thinks of how Dean would look, how he would, sound, _feel_ -

Castiel does his best to muffle his cry as he comes, release spattering the shower wall, pleasure sparking through his nerve endings as his body expels its pent up tension. He leans boneless against the wall, giving himself a few final tugs to ride out the rest of his orgasm, letting the shower spray wash away the evidence.

If he had thought he would feel better, he was wrong. He still _wants_.

He wants to walk back into that bedroom and plaster himself to Dean's body, never mind Sam's presence. He wants to take and be taken, to give and be given. But he won't. He can't.

Not yet.


	11. interlude ii. (now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As long as we're alive, there's hope._
> 
> Charlie calls.

When Castiel wakes, Dean is gone.

He stretches languidly in the tangle of sheets and blankets that make up his improvised nest on Sam’s floor, blinking the sleep from his eyes; he’s not sure he’d ever slept so soundly during any of his (however brief) dabbles in true humanity.

Probably understandable, given his… activities… of the previous night.

Cas allows himself a small smile as he remembers.

His smile disappears when he lays eyes on Sam. The younger Winchester brother does not seem any better than the day before; if anything, he seems worse. Sam’s skin is pale and drawn, and he seems unnaturally thin - certainly thinner than a man of his considerable height and build should be.

Castiel lays his hand on Sam’s forehead as he has seen Dean do, but after a moment realizes he has no concept of what this is supposed to achieve.

The echo of rock guitar chords catches Castiel’s attention from elsewhere in the bunker, followed by Dean’s voice, too distant to make out apart from its baritone rumble. Castiel limps out of Sam’s room, mindful of his cut foot, and makes his way to the kitchen.

“Okay, no, I’m gonna veto that considering I can’t even spell it,” Dean is saying, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder as he whisks something in a large metal bowl. Castiel smells egg and something else distinctly green and vegetative. A tinny voice responds through the speaker, too high to be Kevin. Charlie, then.

“No, I don’t have a pen, I’ve got to get this quiche in the oven before the crust dries out-”

Charlie’s response is louder this time.

“Well give me a minute then!” Dean snaps, then appears to notice Castiel’s presence for the first time. 

The whisk stops as Dean catches sight of Cas’ appearance. Castiel hadn’t given a though to his clothing, and is still in the pair of flannel sleep pants Dean had loaned him. His torso is bare, and his hair is no doubt disheveled from sleep. Charlie’s voice on the other end of the line is lost as Dean looks Cas up and down, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

Castiel’s stomach jolts pleasantly at the shine of moisture left on Dean’s mouth. He wants to taste it. “Good morning,” he says, instead.

Dean jerks as if surprised, and nods in greeting before quickly turning back to his quiche. Castiel isn’t fooled; the back of Dean’s neck and the tips of his ears are quite pink.

Dean upends the bowl into a pie tin, already lined with dough. “Well, talk to Cas then,” he says, and holds out the phone towards Castiel without looking at him.

Castiel takes it. Warmth suffuses his fingers where they brush against Dean’s. Is he imagining the new energy between them? Or has it been there, unnoticed, since their meeting? In his newly-recalled memories, he seems drawn to Dean’s past lives - is there something that connects them, through time and space?

“Hello, Charlie,” Castiel says rather than dwell on it.

 _“Sup,”_ Charlie replies. _“So, Kev and I have found a bunch of angels and most of them seem really, hopelessly derptastic or are super hurt from the fall. They’re also not super good at hiding, which should probably be something they teach you in angel-school?”_

“Angels have no education system,” Castiel says.

 _“Joke,”_ Charlie says. _“But we’ve got a few leads. Names for you, anyway. I was just telling Dean about Schemhampharae, I think I’m saying that right?”_

“Close enough,” Castiel says. “I don’t know her well. She’s one of the Mu’aqqibat, a guardian-class angel.”

 _“Guardian, that’s good, right?”_ Charlie asks.

“She wouldn’t have the kind of power that Sam needs,” Castiel tells her. “The Mu’aqqibat are excellent fighters, but their other abilities are lacking. Next candidate?”

 _“Well, poop,”_ Charlie says. _“She was cute. Okay, then, Theo?”_

“No,” Castiel says immediately, shuddering. “Next?”

_“Wow, geez. Alright, then all we’ve got is Ezekiel.”_

Castiel considers for a moment. “Possible,” he says. “He’s an excellent soldier, no doubt. He fought in Anna’s garrison for many millennia. He’s a seraph, like I am.” He coughs. “Like I was.”

 _“Ouch,”_ Charlie says. _“Sorry.”_

“Don’t apologize,” Castiel says. “I’m human now, for better or for worse.”

 _“Still sucks,”_ Charlie replies.

“I miss my wings,” Castiel admits.

 _“Yeah, but you can roll with the mud-monkeys now,”_ Charlie tells him. _“And I bet Dean likes having you around.”_ Her smile is evident in her voice.

Cas thinks of the flush on Dean’s neck and ears. “Maybe,” he says.

 _“You tapped that yet?”_ Charlie asks.

Castiel frowns. “I haven’t - what?”

Charlie laughs. _“Nevermind,”_ she says. _“So, Ezekiel, then. It’s just…”_

“Just what?” Castiel asks.

 _“He seems pretty beat up from the fall,”_ Charlie says. _“We saw his wings. Or, like, their shadows. They’re all naked and stuff. Missing feathers, or whatever you guys have instead of feathers?”_

“We don’t have feathers, per se,” Castiel tells her. “Your human eyes associate wings with feathers, so that is what you see.”

 _“Sure, sure,”_ Charlie agrees. _“But anyway, he seems like a cool guy, but Kevin isn’t sure if he can heal Sam as messed up as he is, but he’s the only lead we’ve got, but I don’t want to bring him home just to find out it won’t work, but -“_

“Hold on a moment,” Castiel says. “Let me ask Dean.”

“Ask Dean what?” Dean says, as if he hadn’t been listening to the entire conversation. Castiel quickly summarizes what Charlie had told him, and Dean’s eyebrows knit together. There’s a long silence as he contemplates the situation.

“What do you think?” Dean asks.

“I would trust Ezekiel,” Castiel says. “But that’s not the question.”

“Could he heal Sam?” Dean says impatiently.

“Potentially,” Castiel says. “If he were at full strength, there would be no doubt. But if Ezekiel’s grace is damaged, it will need time to heal before he can in turn heal Sam.” He hesitates. “Dean, I don’t want to be the one that points this out, but… it may be time that Sam does not have.”

Dean kicks the oven door. The metallic sound reverberates among the concrete bunker walls.

 _“Well, Dean’s breaking things,”_ Charlie says. Castiel ignores her.

“Do it,” Dean says finally. “Bring him here.” 

“You’re sure?” Castiel asks.

“We might not find a better option,” Dean says. “I have to try, Cas, I have to -”

“I know,” Castiel says, laying a hand on his shoulder.

 _“Are you two making eyes at each other again?”_ Charlie asks.

Cas brings the phone to his ear again. “Dean says to bring him,” he relates.

 _“Yes!”_ Charlie cheers. _“Okay. We’ll be there soon. It may take us a day to get back, we’re in Pennsylvania. I’ll let you guys know when we’re close.”_

“Thank you, Charlie,” Cas says.

 _“No problemo, boss-man,”_ she tells him. _“Saving the day, kinda what I do.”_ And with that, she hangs up. 

Castiel closes Dean’s phone and hands it back to him. “They’re on their way back,” he says. “They’ll be here by tomorrow evening.”

Dean nods

“Sam looks worse today,” Castiel says bluntly.

Dean’s whole demeanor seems to sag. “Yeah, I saw,” he says. “I should be in there with him, I just -”

The oven timer dings.

“I just wanted to make you breakfast,” Dean says quietly.

Cas wants to respond, but Dean turns away to reach for the oven mitts before he can say anything. Dean’s quiche smells delicious, cheesy top bubbling and golden, interspersed with spinach and artichoke and something else Castiel can’t pinpoint. Dean sets it gently on the counter, closing the oven and turning off the dials.

On impulse, Cas steps forward, bringing his arms up around Dean’s waist. He rests his forehead on the back of Dean’s neck, letting himself cling for just a moment, trying to offer Dean what comfort he can.

“Thank you,” he says.

Dean shrugs minutely, but doesn’t shake Castiel off or push him away. “Sure thing,” he says.

Castiel starts to respond -

but pain flares behind his eyes, and he lets go of Dean abruptly, hands coming up involuntarily in an attempt to block out the suddenly-blinding fluorescent lights of the bunker.

“Cas?” Dean says, alarmed, but Castiel is already unconscious on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pretend this is an alternate universe in which the Supernatural characters can actually accomplish something in a few days instead of a few months?


	12. those who wait. (???)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I fixed you, Castiel. I fixed you._
> 
>  
> 
> Castiel's return to Heaven is not exactly welcoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: non-graphic references to torture

Castiel has experienced pain before.

He has experienced human pain, during his brief flirtation with humanity while his grace recovered in Carthage. He has experienced the pain of having his true form damaged, many times - he is a soldier, and soldiers are injured often.

This pain is not like that pain.

“My name is Naomi,” the angel tells him.

Castiel knows her. He knows this white room, he knows this routine. And yet, he doesn’t.

“I had hoped I wouldn’t see you again, Castiel,” she says, almost tiredly. “After the last time, I thought you might finally keep to the path Heaven has chosen for you.”

Castiel tries to respond, but something holds him immobile - binding his grace and his form to the place Raphael had secured him, muting his voice and rendering him helpless.

And then the pain begins.

Naomi’s tools are forged of starmetal and sharper than any angel blade. With them she cuts and prods into the very core of Castiel’s grace, until all there is is the pain, and he _remembers_ -

There is a garden, and a mountainside, and two men - 

_Pain._

“You should have come straight back to heaven as soon as your grace was repaired,” Naomi says calmly, as if she does not have six inches of starmetal embedded in Castiel’s vessel’s skull. “To delay your return to dally with a human - unacceptable.”

_Can you hear me?_

A voice breaks through the pain, clear as crystal, a prayer from a soul Castiel knows well -

“But I will not give up on you, Castiel,” Naomi continues. “As long as I am alive, I will do whatever it takes to fix you.”

Naomi tears at him again, and again, and again. Castiel’s vessel is consumed by the agony, and blinks out of existence. His true form spills out against the cold, unforgiving floor of Naomi’s room. He is undone. He is -

_Castiel?_

The voice is accompanied by visions of a lush jungle, a stone stairway. Temples built to the heavens. Intricate pictographs carved into gray stone, depicting histories and legends.

_I am told you do not exist, but I remember you. Are you real, Castiel? You gave me this gift, and I remember. I remember you painting lamb’s blood over my door as a child. I remember cleansing a temple. I remember a great battle._

Castiel clings to the prayer, holds on as if it is the last lifeline he will ever find - the last lifeline to himself, to what Naomi is trying to erase.

 _I thought you would find me again,_ continues the Righteous Soul. _I have waited. And I will continue to wait, for I know time to you is not like time for me and my kind._

Naomi hums while she works, a melody Castiel does not recognize. The implement in her hands moves, changes, spins - it whirs and buzzes. Castiel screams. The prayer fades.

He does not know how much time passes before he hears the prayer again. Naomi’s work is endless. Perhaps he has always been here, spread open and pinned under Naomi’s hands, on display like a preserved butterfly.

Perhaps it has been only minutes.

Time is meaningless.

It is eons (or seconds, or centuries) before he hears the voice again. It is different, this time, and yet the same. He sees a palace, sliding doors, wooden pagodas, golden fish darting in tranquil ponds. His hands (not his hands) are stained with ink and yet pale as mountain snow.

_I sometimes wonder if you are but a figment of my imagination, created by a lonely child to fill the emptiness she felt unseen in room full of strangers._

If Castiel had eyes, he would weep.

_You told me once that certain souls are bound to one another. I wonder if you and I are the same - bound, and yet separate. Perhaps that is why I cannot forget you. You have bound yourself to me, despite the sorrow of human existence. I can pray only that you find me, before I am washed away again._

_I am but victim of the tyranny of time. I think perhaps that you are as well._

Sometimes, Castiel begs.

Naomi ignores him for the most part, going about her work with single-minded dedication. At first, Castiel begs her to stop, to let him go, I’ll do whatever you want, just _please-_

Later, he just begs for her to finish quickly. To let it just be over.

_I am tired of waiting for you to find me. I’ve decided to find you, instead._

The Righteous Soul’s prayer echoes this time from atop a snowy mountain.

_I can’t think of any reason you would stay away. I think maybe you’re in trouble. Or something’s keeping you from me._

_I’d much rather think that than believe you abandoned me._

_So I’ll go to the Holy Land, and I’ll learn what I can. And if I don’t find you in this life, I will find you in the next, or the next, and I will never stop searching until I find you again. This I swear._

Castiel has no doubt that the Righteous Soul will keep his word.

He hopes there is something left of him when it happens.

_Poscia che ‘ncontro a la vita presente d’i miseri mortali aperse ‘l vero quella che ‘mparadisa la mia mente,_

Castiel hears but does not understand.

_come in lo specchio fiamma di doppiero vede colui che se n’alluma retro, prima che l’abbia in vista o in pensiero,_

Something changes.

Naomi looks up from her work and for a moment Castiel is blissfully free of pain.

Another angel enters. “Naomi,” he says, “there’s a problem. An intruder, in the lower levels.”

“Who is it?” Naomi asks.

“We don’t know,” the other angel replies.

_e se rivolge per veder se ‘l vetro li dice il vero, e vede ch’el s’accorda con esso come nota con suo metro;_

It’s not a prayer, Castiel realizes, so much as a mantra, a subconscious thought.

“He could not have gotten in without help,” the angel continues. “We may have a traitor in the ranks. Michael has requested your assistance.”

“A moment,” Naomi says. She wrenches her starmetal tool out of Castiel’s grace and he screams again, true voice battering weakly against the vestiges of his ruined form.

Both angels vanish.

_cosi la mia memoria si ricorda ch’io feci riguardando ne’ belli occhi_

Only moments after they have gone, another angel arrives.

“Damn, little bro, look what she did to you,” Gabriel says.

_onde a pigliarmi fece Amor la corda._

Gabriel sets about undoing the bindings Naomi had placed on Castiel’s true form; once freed, Castiel sags, broken, into his brother’s arms. He tries to speak, but his true voice is ruined from screaming.

“’S alright, Cassie, I’mma get you outta here,” Gabriel says. He soothes tendrils of grace over the tears in Castiel’s own, repairing the worst of Naomi’s damage. “Got somebody you’re gonna want to see, but we need to get you a new vessel first.”

Castiel lets Gabriel fly him to Earth and guide him into a vessel, but the instant his grace is fully contained, his vessel collapses unconscious.

“Oh,” he hears Gabriel say before he blacks out. “Didn’t think about that.”

When Castiel wakes, his first impression is of _home_.

His vessel is warm, cocooned in blankets and propped against something warm and firm - a chest, perhaps. A hand cards through his vessel’s hair, soothing and familiar.

He opens his eyes.

The face that greets him is unfamiliar, but Castiel would recognize that soul anywhere.

“You found me,” he croaks.

The Righteous Soul grins; Castiel feels as if he’s staring into the sun. “Of course I did. It may have taken me a while, but I believe I promised I would find you again.”

“How?” Castiel asks. “You - you couldn’t have gotten into heaven on your own -“

“Beatrice,” the Righteous Soul says simply.

“I told you, my name is Gabriel,” Castiel’s brother says irritably, and only then does Castiel think to examine his surroundings. Gabriel is seated nearby, in a female vessel with long, dark hair. “Lover boy here was kicking up such a ruckus trying to find you that the halo patrol were seriously considering just wiping him out. Lucky for you I got here first.”

Castiel can hear the beat of the Righteous Soul’s heart, steady and comforting. “I don’t know your name,” he says.

“I’ve had more than a few since we last met,” the Righteous Soul replies, “but recently, I’ve gone by Durante.”

“Durante,” Castiel repeats. “I missed you.”

The hand in his hair stops its repetitive stroking, and cradles his head instead. “And I you,” Durante says, and kisses him.

Castiel melts a little into the touch, parts his vessel’s lips minutely. Gabriel coughs, and they break apart, but not before Castiel feels Durante’s smile against his mouth.

“What happened to you, bro?” Gabriel asks.

Castiel closes his eyes, trying to remember. It seems a very long time ago that he was brought back to Heaven by Raphael. “I - I saw you die,” Castiel says, looking up at Durante. “When you were Servius. I couldn’t save you, so I - I followed your soul, to the afterlife. The Gatekeepers had you, they said - your soul, and the Walker of the Wheel, they’re bound. And for some reason, you’re stuck in a cycle of rebirth, and I was going to try to find out why, but Raphael found me.”

“And handed you straight over to Naomi,” Gabriel says darkly.

Castiel shudders. “She said she was going to fix me,” he whispers.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Gabriel tells him, “you’re not broken.”

“Definitely not,” Durante agrees.

Castiel lets himself take comfort in their support for a moment. “How did you get to me?” Castiel asked.

“Pretty simple plan, actually,” Gabriel says. “I let lover boy here loose in the lower levels, near the Garden, with a crap ton of spellwork and some protective sigils. He caused enough of a commotion that it was pretty easy to ask around until I found someone who knew what had happened to you - one of Naomi’s flunkies, Ion, I think. May have given him the impression that it was super important archangel business. And as soon as they let their guard down, I popped in to grab you.”

“And no one found out?” Castiel asks. “That you went behind their backs to save me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Gabriel says evasively.

Castiel frowns. “Gabriel, what did you do?”   
“Nothing yet,” his brother says. “Sure I wasn’t exactly careful, but I don’t care anymore. I’m done with Heaven, bro. Just… done.” He shrugs. “There’s more you should probably know, but it can wait a little while. You should get some rest - your grace was in shreds when I found you. I managed to repair the worst of it, but it’s gonna take some time to heal up completely.”

“He’s right,” Durante says. “Rest. I’ll watch over you.”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, and then Gabriel’s fingers are on his vessel’s forehead, and he sleeps.

Durante is asleep when Castiel wakes again, feeling much stronger this time. He watches Durante’s chest rise and fall with his breath for a while; deeper down, beneath his human shape, Castiel can see the pulse of his soul, hear its music unlike any other soul Castiel has seen.

Not for the first time, Castiel marvels at the beauty of his Father’s creation.

A quiet rustling of wings heralds Gabriel’s arrival, and Castiel looks up. His brother holds a finger to his vessel’s lips and gestures towards the door of the room Castiel can only assumes belongs to Durante.

Castiel slips out from the covers and follows, bare feet padding quietly against the wood floor. Gabriel closes the bedroom door behind them, and leads Castiel further into the house where their voices won’t wake Durante.

“There’s a couple things you should know,” Gabriel says without preamble.

“I gathered as much,” Castiel says. “It cannot possibly have been that simple to free me from Heaven.”

“It wasn’t,” Gabriel admits. “But I didn’t want to tell your human that, because - well. First off, I had some time to look into your whole situation with these souls you’re obsessed with. You were up there for almost 800 years.”

Castiel blinks. It is not so long a time in comparison with an angel’s lifespan, but he still had not realized so much time had passed under Naomi’s knife.

“All that time, and I barely found anything,” Gabriel continues. “But what I did find out, you’d be interested in. Such as - these souls? The Righteous Soul and the Walker of the Wheel? They’re old. Incredibly old, especially in human terms - we’re talking, dawn-of-civilization old. I can’t pinpoint exactly where they first came from, but they’re ancient by mortal standards.”

“I’m not surprised,” Castiel says. “To have lived so many lives - and there’s no proof that the first time I encountered them, in Egypt, was their first cycle.”

“Second thing,” Gabriel says. “Your little sabbatical with Naomi? Not the first one. Not even close. And I think whatever it is she’s trying to ‘fix’ in you? Related to that guy in there,” he says, jerking his vessel’s thumb towards the room where Durante is still asleep. “And I’m not sure even _she_ knows what it is. But there’s something going on with him, and you, and his soulmate-life-partner-whatever. And it’s big.”

“If Na -” Castiel can’t bring himself to say her name. “If she doesn’t know what’s going on, then who does?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says. “Which leads me to - the third thing.”

“Which is?” Castiel asks.

“I had to call in a few favors to find you,” Gabriel says. “You don’t understand - no one upstairs even knows Naomi exists, much less what she does and where she does it. In the end, I wound up having to ask Michael.”

Castiel stares at him in shock. “Are you insane?” he hisses. “You asked _Michael?_ ”

“Relax, he totally owes me over the First Crusade,” Gabriel says, waving his vessel’s hand. “But he did - he did tell me one thing, and yeah, I know, it wasn’t really my choice to make, but I had to do _something_ , and I thought - well, I thought it might be the choice you’d make too. And Michael’s orders supersede everyone’s, except for, well. The big man himself.”

“Get to the point, Gabriel,” Castiel says.

“I made a deal,” Gabriel says finally. “To get you out. You get one human lifetime on Earth, with your lover boy here. Heaven won’t bother you, or mess with you, or even look for you. One life, one _natural_ life, until the Righteous Soul dies and goes through the cycle again. And when he does, you return to Heaven. Voluntarily.”

“Back to _her_ ,” Castiel finishes for him.

Gabriel hesitates. “Sort of,” he answers. “Not back to the torture, or her trying to fix you. Instead, they - they’ll just wipe you. Erase all your memories. And they want to take your blessing off Durante, so he won’t remember his past lives.”

“Or me,” Castiel says.

“Or you,” Gabriel agrees. His vessel’s face is sympathetic. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t what you want to hear. But that’s all I could get. And I thought - I thought you’d rather spend at least one life with him, than never see him again and be stuck with Naomi.”

“You were right,” Castiel says quietly.

“I hate that they’ve treated you like this,” Gabriel says. “But technically - you did disobey. And that’s the cardinal sin. And that you did it for him? A human? Even if he is a special snowflake of a human? They’ll never forgive that.”

“I know,” Castiel says.

He thinks of Durante, or Servius, or Theron - the Righteous Soul. Their time together has been fleeting but Castiel knows - he _knows_ , in the deepest core of his grace - that if there is anything worth defying heaven over, this is it.

“I agree,” Castiel says. “One lifetime. And I’ll return of my own free will. I swear it.”

Gabriel blinks. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Castiel repeats. “Whatever the mystery of the Righteous Soul is, I will solve it. I have an entire mortal lifetime - humans accomplish so much more in so much less time. I will find out what I can, and I will do it in the time Michael has granted.”

Gabriel nods. “Fair enough.” He stands. “I should report back to Heaven with your decision. I’m sorry it had to come to this, brother.”

“You did what you could,” Castiel says, “and for that, I am grateful.”

Gabriel vanishes.

Castiel returns to Durante’s bedroom, crawling back under blankets that still hold a trace of warmth and curling himself against Durante’s broad back.

“I promise,” he whispers. “I will solve this. I swear.”

For now, he has time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Italian in this chapter is taken directly from Dante's _Divine Comedy,_ vol. 3 (Paradiso), Canto XXVIII.
> 
> Once again, vast liberties have been taken with various pieces/parts of history.
> 
> For any that are interested, Dean's former lives, in order are: 
> 
> Uaxaclajuun Ub'aah K'awiil (Guatemala, 695-738)  
> Murasaki Shikibu (Japan, 973-1014)  
> Sigurd Magnusson/Sigurd I (Norway, 1088-1123)  
> and of course Dante Alighieri (Italy, 1265-1321)


	13. from the heaven's brink. (now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I thought you said that we were like family. I believe that too._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Cas tells Dean everything.

"Cas!"

The voice it at once both familiar, and unfamiliar; the name is not his own, and yet somehow it is.

" _Cas!_ "

Castiel jerks violently into consciousness with a feeling akin to slamming facefirst into a concrete wall. Disoriented, it takes him a moment to remember where - and _when_ \- he is: the Men of Letters' bunker in Kansas, with Dean.

There's a strong arm around his shoulders and a hand on his face; Cas is half-sprawled in Dean's lap, looking dazedly up into panicked green eyes and an endless expanse of freckles. "You still with me, buddy?" Dean asks. His hand doesn't move from Castiel's face; Cas's own hand comes up automatically to cover it, fingers curling around Dean's.

"I'm alright," Cas tells him, and unthinkingly turns his head to press a kiss to the center of Dean's palm.

Dean's sharp intake of breath is nearly deafening in the abrupt stillness of the kitchen. Castiel recognizes at once his misstep - that perhaps this version, this incarnation of Dean isn't ready for the sudden intimacy Castiel has just created between them.

Privately, Castiel wonders if they have been building towards this sort of moment for a very long time - if they would have gotten here eventually even without Castiel's awakening memories. But he knows Dean's not ready for something like this, not with Sam's condition hanging like a dark cloud over both their heads, not with thirty years of self-loathing and false confidence molded into a facade Dean wears like armor.

The tension between them stretches on and on, irrepressible, the longer they are silent - uncomfortable seconds seeming to drag into hours. Dean's fingers twitch against Castiel's face as if he's trying to force himself not to pull away. It's a nice sentiment, but Cas doesn't want to push this tenuous, unnamed new _thing_ between them.

Like this, Dean is close enough to kiss. Castiel is acutely aware that he's wearing nothing more than a flimsy pair of borrowed sleep pants; lying shirtless in Dean's arms, it would be such a simple thing to drag his face down and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

Instead, he gives Dean an out, breaking the silence. "I'm sorry if I startled you. That's never happened before while I was awake."

It's enough to shatter whatever spell he'd cast in the first place.

Dean blinks bemusedly at him. "What do you mean, while you were awake? What just happened? Are you alright?"

Castiel sits up, allowing the intimate space to fall away naturally. "I've been... remembering things," he says carefully. "At first, I thought they were just dreams, but now... well, I'm fairly sure they actually did happen, I just had forgotten - or been made to forget, until now." 

He tells Dean everything - about the dream-memories, about the Righteous Soul and the Walker of the Wheel. He tells Dean about the Gatekeepers, and about Naomi wreaking havoc on his memories, which prompts a string of colorful curses from the hunter. And he tells Dean about his theory - that the Winchester brothers are the two reincarnating souls in question.

"Then why don't I remember you?" Dean asks.

"It was part of the deal Gabriel struck for me," Castiel answers. "After your life as Durante, you would have been reborn without my blessing, which had allowed you to keep your memories."

"And you didn't remember because..."

"Naomi," Castiel finishes.

Dean swears again.

"It's possible her death caused whatever binding she placed on me to fade," Castiel continues. "But I still don't remember everything. I remember agreeing to Gabriel's deal, and then - nothing. No memories of anything outside Heaven, anything unusual, until I pulled you from Hell." He frowns. "I had resolved to use my time with you - with Durante - to find the reason for your continuous rebirth, but if I found it, I don't remember. It's possible I never did."

"Continuous rebirth," Dean echoes.

Castiel nods. "It's... strange, I know."

"Strange doesn't even begin to cover it," Dean says. "I'm being... reborn?"

"Technically, it's Sam being reborn," Cas corrects. "It's only affecting you because you're soulmates."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "We're brothers."

"And soulmates," Castiel says patiently. "The bond between soulmates isn't always a romantic one. In this life, your love is fraternal. In other lives -"

"Do not even go there," Dean barks.

"No one is accusing you of incest, Dean," Castiel teases.

"I hate you," Dean says.

Cas smiles. "Historically speaking, that has not always been the case."

Dean falls silent at that, and Castiel knows he is thinking about Servis and Durante, and the relationship Castiel had with them - with him. Castiel had spared him the details of any intimacy they had shared, but he hadn't exactly omitted their closeness, either.

Castiel knows that romantic attachment is difficult for Dean. Neither of the Winchester brothers has had particularly good luck with romantic relationships, but Dean especially seems averse to the idea, citing their 'life on the road' or his own 'unattached drifter' status as excuses. He knows this is because Dean has a near-pathological fear of abandonment, and a deep-seated self-loathing that stems from his experiences long before Castiel ever met him in this life. 

And even if Dean _were _open to the idea of a romantic relationship - Castiel's vessel is male. Angels are inherently genderless beings, but Castiel is no longer an angel, and he has spent so long inhabiting Jimmy Novak's body that he's come to think of himself as male, specifically this particular shape. Castiel knows Dean's soul, knows that Servis and Durante showed preferences that included men, but that doesn't necessarily mean that Dean's preferences are the same - and even if they are, there's no guarantee that Dean is comfortable or even aware of it. Human sexuality is a ridiculously complicated thing.__

__Cas knows Dean has to be aware that this bond between them goes far beyond friendship - even a deep friendship such as theirs. But to speak it aloud - to acknowledge it, even a little - might deal their fragile existence a blow it cannot withstand right now._ _

__"Dean," he says quietly. "It's alright. I know it's... a lot to process."_ _

__"Yeah," Dean says, just as softly._ _

__"It doesn't have to - change," Castiel says, a little desperately. "You are my friend, and I would not give that up, not for anything. Nothing has to change between us."_ _

__"It's already changed, Cas," Dean says. His face is unreadable, even to Castiel, who knows it so well - who has memorized each crease, each freckle, in excruciating detail, who has pieced him together, atom by atom, from the inside out. "It's _been_ changing. Even before today. Ever since we met."_ _

__Cas isn't quite sure what to say to that. It's true. He regards Dean silently from just a few feet away, sitting there on the cold floor of the bunker's kitchen._ _

__"I'm not - " Dean begins, falters. Starts again. "I can't talk about it yet, Cas, it's - it's too much."_ _

_I can't do it, Cas. It's too big._

"With Sam and - I just." Dean continues. "I can't." 

_I'm not - I'm not strong enough._

__Castiel tries not to let himself appear disappointed. "I understand," he says._ _

__Dean pushes himself off the floor, dusting off his jeans. "That doesn't mean -" He trails off, and offers his hand to help Castiel up. Cas takes it, and when he stands, Dean doesn't immediately let go._ _

__"That doesn't mean not ever," Dean says, so, so quietly. "Just. Not yet."_ _

__Cas is fairly sure he's not imagining the little squeeze Dean gives his fingers before their hands separate. A tiny little spark of hope manifests somewhere beneath Cas' ribs._ _

__"Okay," he says._ _

__He'll take it. It's a start._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from _Endymion_ by John Keats.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @mojo-da-jojo. I'm nice!


End file.
